


A Little Walk

by ancalime8301



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Challenge Response, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-14
Updated: 2004-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 62,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo becomes lost in Minas Tirith after deciding to take a late-night stroll.  Written for a FrodoHealers challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Frodo sighed with relief as he stepped out of the Hall of Feasts into the cooler night air. It was hot and stuffy inside, between the large crowds of people and the muggy summer weather. They were having yet another celebration feast, though the particular occasion escaped his recall at the moment. As he leaned against the cool pillar, he tried in vain to remember just why he was there, or even why he had come outside. Oh, yes, that's right! He had come out for air and to escape the overwhelming crowd of Big Folk. It probably would not have been as overwhelming to a sober hobbit, but then, Frodo Baggins was not a sober hobbit. At the beginning of the evening, he had not intended to drink much -if at all- but his cousins and Sam had pressed him to have just a little ale, to loosen him up a bit. "It'll do you some good!" Pippin declared enthusiastically, shoving a full mug into his cousin's hand and spilling half of it in the process.

After the first couple of mugs, Frodo conceded that drinking would do him some good. It made all his pains and worries go away, though he knew that was only temporary. He would have one bad headache in the morning, but he certainly felt good now! Well, no, he didn't feel *good* exactly, just numb. Yes, that's the word. Numb. But numb was certainly an improvement on the pain and emptiness of before.

So he had been enjoying the free-flowing liquor as much as his fellow hobbits, though he seemed to be the last one standing. Merry and Pippin had played one too many drinking games against each other and were now passed out in a corner of the large banquet hall. Sam, on the other hand, was napping peacefully on a window seat. He had been sitting by Frodo, making sure his master was all right and not too drunk or anything, but when he fell asleep, Frodo had taken the opportunity to escape.

Except the air outside wasn't much better than the air within. Low, thick clouds obscured the stars and promised rain soon, a promise that was more than welcome by the inhabitants of the city. The early summer weather had been sweltering these last few days, and not even nightfall brought any relief. Frodo looked forward to the cooler weather that would follow the rain, for he did not much enjoy his clothing sticking to him like a second skin. He soon grew restless standing by the pillar, and decided he wanted to take a little walk. After all, he still had not seen as much of Minas Tirith as he might have liked, and now was as good a time as any.

His mind resolved, Frodo stepped off the porch and walked down the path toward the arched tunnel leading to the rest of the city. He strode unnoticed right past the guards at the gate, for they had visited the party before coming on duty and were rather unaware of the world. Frodo let his feet take him where they wanted as his mind wandered, paying scant attention to where he was or where he was going.

The hobbit made quite a sight, weaving unsteadily as he aimlessly walked the streets of the town. He was brought back to himself when the clouds overhead unleashed a torrent of rain, accompanied by bright flashes of lightning and thunder rumbling across the heavens.

Frodo stood in the middle of the road, soaked to the skin, as he pondered what to do now. He turned in circles several times, trying to remember where he had come from, and only succeeding in making himself dizzy and nauseous. Falling to his knees, he crossed his arms acrost his stomach, trying not to add to his indignity by throwing up. But everything came up anyway, and was quickly washed away by the pouring rain.

The rain was cold, and the breeze that now blew was cool, drawing goosebumps all over his exposed skin, and making him shiver despite the remaining heat. His light shirt and breeches that seemed so hot before now felt non-existent as he hugged his arms to himself in an effort to retain some warmth. Small rivers of water gurgled over the cobblestones and around his knees, drawn towards the lower levels of the city by the inexorable tug of gravity. A little more clear-headed thanks to the cold water, Frodo realized that he would have to go opposite the water to reach the hall again. He began to trudge back up the street, hoping he was headed in the right direction, and greatly desiring a change of clothes.

The downpour continued; the cold water striking the heated buildings produced billowing clouds of fog, and soon Frodo could not tell which way was uphill anymore. He seemed to have reached a plateau, and had no idea where to find the gate leading up to the next level of the city. Realizing his defeat, Frodo next looked for a place he could take shelter from the rain and wait until the storm subsided before trying again. The nearest available doorway was suitable enough for his purposes, so he crouched down as far away from the opening as he could get, and waited.

~~~~

King Elessar stretched and sighed. The banquet held in honor of various visiting dignitaries had proved to be a most enjoyous affair, in spite of the sticky weather. It *was* to have been held outside in the courtyard, where the air was not quite so close, but the threat of an oncoming storm chased the party indoors.

Most of the guests had departed for their lodgings already, leaving only his servants and those asleep in the large hall. He was not in the least bit surprised to see Merry and Pippin snoring over in one corner, having obviously greatly enjoyed the plentiful ale and wine supplied. Aragorn scanned the cavernous room for the other two halflings he knew had to be around somewhere. He had seen them at dinner, but afterwards when the guests were mingling, he'd quickly lost sight of the small folk amongst the large numbers of bigger folk. Ah, there was Sam, sleeping on a window seat. But where was Frodo? Perhaps he'd already gone to bed; that would not have surprised him in the least. Frodo didn't seem to enjoy these celebrations as much as the others, but the other hobbits made sure he didn't feel left out.  
Aragorn went over to Sam, picking him up to take him to his bed, while two of his servants followed his lead and attended to Merry and Pippin. The hobbits all shared a bedroom, more for convenience than anything else, as there were many folk being housed in Minas Tirith and all available lodgings were full to capacity. When Aragorn entered, he was rather surprised to find Frodo not in sight. He frowned, trying to think of where else the absent hobbit could be. As he carefully laid Sam on the bed, a sudden flash of lightning and a loud rumble of thunder caught everyone by surprise, and Sam jerked awake. The sound of rain beginning to pour relentlessly drifted through the open windows. Realizing that Sam may know Frodo's whereabouts, Aragorn asked, "Did Frodo tell you he was going anywhere?"

Sam looked confused for a moment as he tried to make his befuddled mind work. "He might've said he was going out for some air..." Both pairs of eyes went to the window and the raging thunderstorm. Silence reigned for a moment before Sam said, "He wouldn't be foolish enough to be out there in that . . . would he?"

Aragorn answered, "I hope not . . ."

Merry and Pippin, also awakened by the storm's raucous arrival, were now listening to the conversation. Merry asked, "Has no one seen him lately?"

"Not as far as I know," Aragorn replied.

"I think he said he was going out for some air," Sam shifted uncomfortably, "but I don't rightly know. I was more'n half asleep."

"How long ago was that?" Pippin asked.

"Uh... a while. An half hour, at least."

"Then why don't we go look for him? He probably didn't go far."

In silent agreement, all present left the room in search of the missing Ringbearer.


	2. Chapter 2

Frodo was startled awake when a door tried to squash him against the wall. The person behind the door shoved it a few times, cursing at it when it wouldn't open all the way, then finally looked to see why. "Hey, kid!" the surly man growled. "Git outta the way! This is a doorway, not an inn!"

Frodo stood up and scurried out of the way, his absolutely dreadful headache superseding any insults thrown at his person. He stumbled down the street, past many small shops as they were being opened for the day, trying not to run into anything, even though he had his eyes closed against the glare of the morning sun. When he saw a dark alley, he ducked inside, and sat down against the wall of a building, sincerely wishing he hadn't had so much to drink the night before. In addition to his headache, it felt like a troll was standing on his chest, keeping him from taking full breaths, and forcing him to resort to shallow gasps instead. The gasping unsettled his stomach, so he was thankful he had no food even though he realized he should be hungry by now.

He was still very damp from the rain overnight, and the chill in the shade soon made him shiver. The desire for warmth won over the desire to avoid the light, and he stepped back out into the sunlit street. Many people were now passing up and down the street, going about their shopping and their everyday routines, completely oblivious to the halfling standing forlornly by the alley. Some children ran by, yet even they did not notice him, intent on their make-believe games.

Frodo sighed and randomly picked a direction to go, trying to avoid being trampled by the Big Folk unused to watching for smaller beings. He was swept along amidst the crowd until he spotted what looked like a tavern across the way. It took some doing, but he managed to extricate himself from the flow and cross the street, hopeful of getting directions back to the upper levels of the city from the proprietor of the establishment. He could look up and see the White Tower, but had no idea where the entry to the next circle lay, and he was not in the mood to traipse from one end of the city to the other looking for it.

He went in on the heels of a large, unkempt man, and narrowly avoided being slammed in the heavy door. The rowdy noisiness of the place made him wince, though it reminded him of the Prancing Pony in Bree. He found the towering main counter, which was taller than he, and tried in vain to attract the attention of the barkeep. It wasn't until some of the patrons began whispering and pointing that the man even noticed he was there. He glanced over the counter at the short, dirty being, and said, "Beat it, kid. I don' serve beggars."

Thoroughly offended, Frodo crossed his arms indignantly and retorted, "I am not a child, and I am certainly not a beggar!" True, he was rather dirty from sleeping on the stoop while being soaked through, but he didn't think he looked *that* bad!

Growing angry, the man replied, "Look. Leave now, an’ no harm'll come to you. But if you insist on giving me cheek, you’ll be sorry."

Trying not to become angry himself at this treatment, Frodo answered carefully, "All I seek is directions to the White Tower. If you would but point me in the right direction, I will leave and trouble you no more."

By now the entire tavern was quiet, listening to the conversation between the venerable barkeep and this ragged urchin. Frodo's words drew such uproarious laughter as to leave some of the patrons breathless and unable to attend their drinks for some minutes. The stern barkeep, however, took the cautious statement as blatant impertinence. "Oh, so you're going to visit the King, are you? If he really expects a visit from a little runt like you, he can come and fetch you from the gaol house himself." He made a motion, and two men stepped out of the shadows, each one grabbing an arm. As he was dragged -no, carried- from the tavern, Frodo wondered how in Middle-Earth he had gotten himself into this mess.

 

And so, after a series of events that left Frodo completely baffled, he was sitting in a barred cell, huddled in the corner on a warped wooden bench, trying to avoid the drafts that seemed to be coming through every crack in the stone walls. The gaol was dim, dank, and dreary, and smelled like something that Frodo didn't think he wanted to identify. There were a few bedraggled drunks in another cell, but he was mercifully alone. Now the men who brought him and a couple of guards already there were sprawled on a bench against the wall opposite the cells, lazily watching the prisoners. Their eyes were especially drawn to Frodo as they argued amongst themselves over what he was.

"I'm telling you, that's a kid, of no more'n 12 summers," one maintained, waving his pipe in Frodo's general direction.

Another insisted, "No! Look at his feet, man! That ain't no kid."

The first one laughed and said, "All right, so he's a deformed kid!" This assertion won the laughs of everyone else present, including the other prisoners, and the conversation was settled for the time being. Completely humiliated, Frodo rested his forehead on his knees and tried not to cry. He shivered, and hugged his knees even closer to his body. How was he going to get out of this mess? Sam probably missed him by now, but he would never think to look *here* of all places. Frodo wondered miserably how long it would take for someone he knew to figure out where he was. Wearied by worry, and still suffering from a hangover, Frodo dozed off, shivering in the cold drafts.

~~~~

When dawn had broken with still no sign of Frodo, the remaining members of the Company grew quite concerned. They had looked in every building of the seventh circle, even climbing to the upper rooms of the Tower, but with no success. Following a brief conference, they set out to search the rest of the city for him, hoping to find him quickly, unharmed. Sam was elected to stay behind just in case Frodo returned on his own. While Sam understood the need for *someone* to stay behind, he didn't think it should be him, so once the others were safely gone, he slipped out and set off on his own, confident that he would be able to find Frodo more quickly than any of the others. He even brought Frodo's cloak with him, for he knew it was likely Frodo had been caught in the storm and would still be damp and cold.

Every so often he would ask the passersby if they'd seen his friend, about his height with dark hair and pale skin, but without fail they answered in the negative. Sam began asking at shops and taverns, hoping Frodo had stopped for shelter or directions, but still to no avail. The afternoon was waning as he trudged up the stairs of yet another tavern. He'd already decided this would be his last stop before heading back, knowing the others would soon be returning as well and would be upset if he were not there. Sam caught sight of the swinging wooden sign, proclaiming the tavern to be The Angry Bull, with a drawing of an enraged bull illustrating it for those who could not read. He could not help but feel that the name was rather ominous.

The heavy wooden door defied his attempts to open it, and he would have had to admit defeat if some patrons had not chosen that moment to leave. Barely escaping a crushing death behind the door, he scrambled around before it slammed to and found himself in a noisy bar, teeming with unsavory-looking characters. Sam wondered if perhaps he'd gotten in over his head, but had no time to carry that thought through before an impatient voice boomed, "What d'you want, little runt? I haven't time to deal w' children."

Deciding to ignore the insult and stick to what he came for, he asked timidly, "I'm looking for my friend. Did you happen to see someone about my height, with dark hair and pale skin, come in here today?"

The barkeep laughed, as did most of the patrons, though they did not know why they were laughing. "So you're looking for that scrawny little fella, huh? Oh yeah, I saw him." Sam's hopes rose with this bit of information. "D'you wanna know where he is? C'mere, fellas, and show this runt where he can find his little friend!" The same two men as before advanced out of the shadows and carried Sam out the door.

He was rather confused by this turn of events, but also happy that he was being taken to Mr. Frodo, so he didn't give much thought to just where they might be taking him.

 

So Sam was more than a little surprised when the two men escorted him into the gaol house. They dropped him on the floor outside of a cell, and he could see Frodo huddled on a bench against the wall, shivering with his head buried in his arms. Sam was ever so grateful for his foresight in bringing the cloak, but was unsure how to go about asking to be allowed to go in to him.

The guards were watching him with great amusement as he held a short mental debate. The other runt had proved to be quite boring, but perhaps bringing this one in would liven things up a little. Finally one of the men asked, "So d'you wanna go in with your friend, runt?"

Sam had decided that going in there would probably be best, so he nodded slowly. The guards were more than happy to comply and soon opened the door, threw him in, and closed it with a clang.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam are stuck in gaol (and Frodo is getting sick). When will the others find them?

Frodo sat in silent misery for longer than he cared to keep track. The sunlight filtering in the small window high above his head moved across the floor and finally disappeared completely, while he slept on and off, more often than not awoken by a taunt from the guards trying to provoke him into doing something. The crude guards acted disturbingly similar to the orcs ... and just like last time, he was alone, he was at the mercy of merciless beings, he was without escape.

Trying to distract himself from this train of thought, Frodo quickly stood and began restlessly pacing the cell. He'd thought the activity may warm him up some and restore feeling to his numb extremities, but the movement only chilled him further, the moving air passing through his damp clothing and stripping away any heat he'd managed to retain thus far. The movement also made him cough roughly, the dampness of the air irritating his lungs. Seeing the patch of sunlight still on the ground, he tried to stand in it and soak up the warmth of the rays, but the sun chose that moment to disappear behind a thick bank of clouds.

In despair, Frodo cast himself back upon the bench, once again curling up in defense. The dank air crawled across his skin leaving chills in its wake; its clammy fingers encased his joints in a shroud of arthritic stiffness. Now not only was that troll standing on his chest, it was squeezing it, too. He coughed a few more times, desperately wishing for some water, but he knew better than to ask the cruel guards for anything. Not too long ago he'd overheard one of the imprisoned men beg for water. The guards, looking for a bit of sport, certainly gave him water- they dumped a bucket of frigid rainwater over the poor wretch's head. Frodo had no intention of letting the guards have their fun with him; he was still damp from the storm last night and had no desire to become wetter.

The guards continued taunting the prisoners all day. Frodo ignored everything they said, so when there was a bit of commotion, he didn't even bother to look up. He just didn't care. Even when one man asked, "So d'you wanna go in with your friend, runt?" Frodo didn't think it concerned him.

It wasn't until the door opened and closed and he felt someone putting something around him that he finally looked up. He blinked confusedly, not sure if his eyes were deceiving him or if Sam was really standing next to him. "Sam?" he asked hoarsely, his voice raspy from disuse and lack of water.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo, it's your Sam," he reassured his master as he tucked the cloak around the shivering hobbit on the bench. Then he clambered up next to him and rubbed Frodo's back and arms to warm him up some.

The guards found this greatly amusing, and jeered at the two small beings. "Aww, isn't that sweet," one mocked. "The bigger one is taking care of the littler one."

"Hey, runt!" another called. "Wanna come rub *my* back?"

Sam bestowed them with a glare, but Frodo murmured, "Don't, Sam. They'll lose interest soon enough if you don't do anything." While at first the taunts continued, Frodo was proved right as one by one the guards stopped mocking them and began to gamble on a rowdy game of cards.

Frodo continued to shiver as Sam tried his best to rub warmth into him, all the while asking about what had happened and if he was all right. Frodo assured him he was fine, just damp and cold; though Sam doubted this was the entire truth, he knew better than to keep pestering about it. When Frodo's shivering still continued, Sam suggested that Frodo sit on his lap; mayhap the shared body heat would have more success, and Sam's body could shield the still damp Frodo from most of the cold drafts infiltrating the cell. Too tired and uncomfortable to argue, Frodo agreed.

After a while, Frodo stopped shivering as violently and seemed to fall asleep, which left Sam to do some thinking. He was not pleased with the results. 'Sam, you ninnyhammer!' he scolded himself. 'Now how are you planning to get out of this mess? Those men won't just let us out, and no mistake. But nobody else knows where we are! Oh, what do we do now?' With many questions, and no answers becoming readily apparent, Sam began to wonder what might happen to him and Mr. Frodo before someone else found them, and how long that might take.

~~~~

It was long after nightfall when the members of the search parties reconvened in the Palace. They had tried to keep the whole affair as quiet as possible, knowing that there were some folk in the city who, if they found the missing halfling, wouldn't hesitate to hold him for ransom when they heard he is a friend of the King. The troubled times of the recent past had left the citizens with an every-man-for-himself attitude, and the recent coming of the King had not changed that attitude one bit. But when it was discovered that Sam was now missing as well, presumably having gone off to search himself, Aragorn admitted they needed to enlist more people to the search than just the remaining members of the Fellowship. He commanded the members of his Guard to keep a careful eye out for the two hobbits, and if they heard anything that may be regarding Frodo and Sam, to report to him at once.

Even with this increased watch, it was after midnight before any news was received. Pippin was on guard that night, and heard a strange tale from the third circle about two bare-foot children having the cheek to show up in a tavern and refuse the proprietor's efforts to escort them out. The tale itself was not strange; youths were often attempting to gain admittance to the taverns in hopes of laying their hands on a mug or two of ale, but the fact that there were two separate occurrences of this at the same tavern -and in the middle of the day, no less!- sent Pippin scurrying back to tell Aragorn what he had learned. It seemed probable that the children of the tale were not children at all, but the two missing hobbits. He knew better than to attempt to rescue Frodo and Sam on his own; from the sound of it, he would more than likely just be thrown in with them!

King Elessar agreed with Peregrin's assessment of the tale, and was soon striding down to the second circle to pay a visit to the gaol house personally, with Merry and Pippin eagerly tagging along. They couldn’t resist an opportunity to tease their elder cousin for being thrown out of a tavern.

But Aragorn lived up to his Bree nickname and soon left the hobbits behind in his preoccupation with his thoughts. Panting, they stopped once they completely lost sight of him, and following a quick discussion, turned and went back. Merry and Pippin didn’t know the way to the gaol house in the dark, and were understandably wary of becoming lost themselves.

Aragorn was hoping for the best, but found himself expecting the worst. He’d heard stories of what men would do to each other while imprisoned, often beating weaker prisoners to death (or close to it) for some imagined slight. If Frodo was being held with men, he would not long be able to defend himself even against one man, much less a group of them. And even if he were held separately, the guards held their own reputation for brutality, looking for sport in torturing prisoners, or pitting one prisoner against another, as in a dogfight. If either of these were the case, Frodo, and Sam with him, could be severely injured or dead by now.

Desperate concern gave speed to his steps as he hurried through the silent streets of Minas Tirith.

~~~~

The cell grew dark as the night deepened, gradually growing colder as the heat of day dissipated under the clear, cloudless sky. Sam was relieved to feel Frodo gradually getting warmer, though before long he began to wonder if perhaps Frodo was getting *too* warm. It was difficult to tell in the growing chill of the gaol, so Sam just hoped for the best. He too dozed on and off, usually awoken by Frodo's coughing. The fits were coming with increasing frequency, and sounding worse each time. There was nothing Sam could do but rub Frodo's back as he coughed and choked, wishing for some water to give him, but after Frodo told him the story from earlier that day, he was certainly not going to appeal to the guards for anything. But it pained him greatly as it became increasingly obvious Frodo was becoming ill from the damp and cold. Granted, it was certainly not a surprise that Frodo was falling ill; anyone who had to wear damp clothes and sit in a dank, chilly cell would get sick!

The heartless guards continued to deride the hobbits, not showing the least bit of compassion even as Frodo coughed. Their behavior made Sam almost wish Minas Tirith *had* fallen to the forces of Mordor, just to show these brutes of Men what could have been their existence as slaves of the Dark Lord.

  
Sam was shaken out of his doze by a new voice, one that sounded more gentle and civilized than the others. He listened intently to the conversation between the current guards and the new voice. "And I suppose you've left the paperwork for me, as usual?" asked the voice, half teasing, half resigned.

"O' course!" one of the crude guards sneered. "Can't give you time to go soft on the prisoners, now can we?"

Sam's hopes rose. Perhaps he would be able to convince this guard of who they are, or at least have him send a message to the King on their behalf. The conversation continued.

"So who've we got today?" the new guard asked.

"Well, we got the regulars in here, as always. Oh, and in the next over we got coupla kids Joram threw out o' the Bull..." came the matter-of-fact reply.

"Why are we holding *children*?"

"Nobody's come for 'em, so's I guess they ain't missed, wherever they came from."

Sam's blood came close to boiling, his anger at the guard's lies and general incompetence almost winning out over his self-restraint. Following the conversation, all of the old guards seemed to leave, abandoning the new guard to a dark, quiet row of cells, illuminated only by the lantern in his hand.

  
If Sam had been hoping the guard would immediately let he and Frodo go, he was sadly disappointed. This new guard strode right past the cells, going to a cluttered desk at the end of the row. After lighting a torch in its bracket on the wall, he sat down and worked on that paperwork for some time. When Frodo would cough, the guard would look up, but then went right back to his work. It was not until Frodo had a coughing fit for the third or fourth time that the guard got up and came over to the hobbits’ cell. "Is he all right?" he asked, holding the lantern high to better see the two prisoners.

"Does he seem all right to you?" Sam retorted in exasperation.

The man did not answer. He walked back to his desk and returned with a skin of water. Unlocking the cell door, he handed the skin to Sam. Sam held the waterskin for Frodo, who drank greedily. "Now be careful," Sam admonished, "or you’ll get sick."

Frodo smiled wryly and replied, "I think it’s a little late for that, dear Sam. I believe I am already a bit sick."

"Oh, hush," Sam rejoined. "You know what I meant."

Frodo didn’t answer, but merely settled back against Sam again.

The guard had crouched down next to the bench, and was watching the two small beings with curiosity. When it was again quiet, he said, "You are not children, are you."

It was not a question, but Sam chose to answer anyway. "No, we’re not. We’re hobbits of the Shire."

The man looked confused for a moment, then realization dawned. "Halflings! Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before?" he said. "But then, you are friends of the King! Why are you here?"

"I'm here because I was looking for him" -he motioned toward Frodo- "and he's here because he seems to have asked for directions at the wrong place," Sam finished bitterly.

Concern and horror warred across the man's face, and he held his forehead in his hand for a few moments before speaking again. "Oh, dear. Those rascals have *really* bungled things this time!" he muttered, mostly to himself.

All through the conversation Frodo was silent, seemingly unaware of what was going on. Sam thought he was looking more poorly than before. He was pale, his eyes held the gleam of fever, and he was shivering uncontrollably once again.

The guard noticed the ailing hobbit's condition, and went to his desk again, this time returning with his cloak. He covered the smaller, sick halfling with it, and the other looked up at him questioningly. He said in a low voice, "I do not trust the blankets kept here, so this will have to do." The halfling nodded, a look of appreciation apparent on his open face.

  
It was to this scene that Aragorn entered the gaol house. He was immensely relieved to see the hobbits separate from the men and unharmed. But his relief soon gave way to a new concern: even in the meager light of the lantern, Frodo did not look good.

Neither the hobbits nor the guard on duty noticed his presence until he stepped through the open cell door and into the lantern’s circle of light. Sam looked up and could not restrain his expression of joy; the guard turned and awkwardly bowed from his crouch upon recognizing the King. "My-my lord," he stammered, rising. "I was about to send word to you. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding-"

"So I’ve heard," Elessar responded grimly. "How long have they been here?"

"I don’t know exactly, I just came on duty about an hour ago. But from what I can tell, the blonde one-"

"Sam," the King supplied.

"-Sam, has been here since just before sundown. The other one-"

"Frodo."

"-Frodo, has been here since about midmorning, though I can’t be sure." He lowered his voice a bit and added, "However long he’s been here is too long, regardless of being a friend of yours. Anyone can see he’s getting sick, with sitting in this musty, drafty cell in wet clothing and all. I fear it’s getting bad."

"How bad?" Elessar asked in concern. The sound of coughing from Frodo’s direction answered his question, and the guard looked sorrowfully at the hobbits. "I must apologize on behalf of the other guards for this. If it gets to be serious, I’ll never forgive myself-" he said helplessly.

"You need not apologize on their behalf," Elessar responded kindly, "or take responsibility for Frodo’s illness upon yourself. You have performed your duty admirably." He stepped over to the bench and picked up Frodo, who had ceased coughing and returned to his half-aware state. "I now take custody of these halflings and free them, since they were imprisoned unjustly," he stated regally, in accordance with the regulations for such a situation.

Sam hopped off the bench and hurried out into the corridor, glad to be free of such a wretched place. Aragorn followed him, but once outside the cell, turned again to address the guard. "Report to me when your duty shift is over," he commanded, then thought of one more thing. "What is your name?"

The guard saluted in response to the order. "Esli, sire."

"Esli. Very well." Aragorn turned and left the gaol house, anxious to take Frodo back to his room. He did not like how the hobbit’s cough sounded, or how his breathing seemed to rattle in his chest. Heat seemed to radiate from him, even through the many folds of the guard’s cloak. Frodo was certainly not well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo is no longer in jail, but the trouble isn't over yet.

"I'm fine!" Frodo insisted, obstinately crossing his arms and causing the bathwater to slosh dangerously close to the edge of the wrought metal tub.

Aragorn gave him a pointed look from above, taking advantage of his superior height, and countered, "If you're fine, then I'm an elf."

The crackling and popping of the fire sounded too loud in the silence that followed. Then Pippin broke the heavy stillness of the air. "But *technically* you're part-"

Merry clapped a hand over his exuberant cousin's mouth and hissed, "Hush, Pip!" After a beat he added, "Aren't you supposed to be on duty right now?" Pippin's eyes widened and he uttered a cry of dismay from behind Merry's hand before scrambling off the bed where he'd been perched between Merry and Sam and scurrying out the door. He had completely forgotten about his guard duty in the midst of the excitement caused by Aragorn's return with Frodo and Sam.

Sam simply sat and watched, amused. Then he turned his attention back to the clash of titan wills. Once again, Aragorn seemed to have forgotten that Frodo was at least as stubborn as he, and had tried to insist that the ailing hobbit drink some foul concoction. Sam certainly sympathized with his master; he'd caught a whiff of the brew and wouldn't want it to come within three paces of him, much less be forced to *drink* it! But he knew Aragorn was right. Frodo was not in the best of health, and despite some improvement upon being given plenty of water and having a warm bath, those who knew him well could still see he was only feigning being well.

The standoff between the hobbit and the king ended when Frodo yawned. Aragorn smirked, and Frodo glared at him. "Just because I'm tired doesn't mean there's anything wrong with me," he groused as he stood and snatched the towel Aragorn held out for him. Sam hopped off the bed and handed Frodo his nightshirt, and helped him dry his hair.

Frodo could feel Aragorn's eyes on his back, just waiting for his body to betray him. While it was true he wasn't feeling very well, he certainly wasn't going to admit it, not when Aragorn was being so smug about it. Frodo swallowed against a cough he could feel building in his chest and hoped he could get Aragorn to leave before he was forced to let the cough escape. The steam from the bath had helped some-though he could tell Aragorn had added some herbs or something to the water when he wasn't looking-but now the urge to cough was returning more insistently.

But the King was gone when Frodo turned back around as he finished buttoning his nightshirt. Merry saw his confusion and shrugged. "He left."

"Good." Frodo crossed over to the bed and climbed on. The white monstrosity never looked so welcoming as it did then. It was a large bed even by Men's standards, and could easily fit half a dozen hobbits. The four hobbits shared it, usually with Frodo sandwiched between Sam and Merry. Pippin slept on the other side of Merry so Merry could push him off if he kicked too much. Ordinarily Frodo did not like being in the middle of the expansive bed; he felt very small and lost, but this time he crawled happily toward the middle, glorying in the freedom and space. That cell hadn't been much larger than the bed...

"Now, cousin," Merry reproved, crawling up the bed and flopping down next to him. "You know Aragorn is only trying to help." The mattress sank a little on Frodo's other side as Sam also climbed up.

Frodo opened his mouth to give Merry a comment of his own when the long-suppressed cough decided to make its escape. He buried his face in the pillow, muffling it so it wouldn't sound quite so bad. The force of it brought tears to his eyes, and he felt a comforting hand rubbing his back as he hacked. When he finally lifted his face from the pillow, both Merry and Sam were staring at him worriedly. Sam handed him a mug of water, which he gratefully took to wash down the phlegm he'd coughed up and to soothe his raw throat. After a moment, Merry commented, "If that's fine, I don't want to see terrible." Frodo made a face at him as he gave the empty mug back to Sam and laid back down. He was asleep almost immediately.

Aragorn heard Frodo's cough out in the hall and shook his head. "Stubborn hobbit," he muttered to himself. He would have to make sure Frodo would cooperate, or he'd be getting a lot worse before he started getting better. But he'd wait until morning. Even stubborn hobbits need their sleep, and especially sick ones. Perhaps by then Frodo will be feeling bad enough that he'll *want* to cooperate. Aragorn turned and wearily returned to the small, out-of-the-way study serving as his bedroom. The 'King's Rooms' were being used as mass housing for all the surplus retainers and servants accompanying the embassies from literally all over Middle-Earth. He looked forward to-no, *longed* for-the time when the arrangements and treaties were made and the hordes of people returned to their own countries.

~~~~~~

As much as Frodo wanted a good night's sleep, it was soon apparent that wasn't going to happen. It seemed like every time he would just get to sleep he would jerk himself awake with coughing. Every time he would cough, he awoke Sam, and sometimes even Merry. They did whatever they could for him, though it wasn't much: gave him water or tea, clapped him on the back to help him clear his airways, and as the night wore on, help him remain upright long enough to finish coughing so he didn't choke on the bits of phlegm he was bringing up. Frodo refused to meet their eyes, knowing what he would see there. Concern. Pity. Reproach. And he didn't want to deal with it. He was too tired.

Eventually he was able to sleep in longer snatches, but then he had dreams, terrible dreams. In one dream, he was being suffocated by his pillow. In another, he was drowning in the murky waters of the Brandywine along with his parents. And every time when he was just about to succumb to the encroaching greyness of oxygen deprivation, he would wake up gasping. His gasps would inevitably lead to more coughing, again waking the others.

Finally Merry asked, "Are you *sure* you don't want one of us to get Aragorn?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Frodo grumbled, trying to turn his back on them both and fall back to sleep. Soon he was in a wet dream world, weightlessly cocooned in an endless pool of water. It was crystal clear, a light blue that went in all directions yet he could see no bound; no matter which way he tried to swim, he couldn't break the surface. The uniformity of the water's color in all directions baffled him. The water wrapped him in a tight embrace, gradually growing noticeably warmer. Though he had no idea how that was possible, it felt nice and lulled him into a state of relaxed composure, bordering on sleepiness. He knew he needed to find the surface soon, but he felt so comfortable that he could ignore his growing need for air. The water grew ever hotter and soon felt like a suffocating blanket upon him, grasping him tighter and making him sweat, dragging him down. His lungs began to burn; he tried to struggle weakly against the web of water holding him still as he felt himself begin to droop. The familiar greyness began to cling to the edges of his vision. 'I can't breathe!' he thought in dismay and despair, fighting his lungs' attempts to inhale the burning hot water. Darkness continued to fall, and Frodo realized with sudden clarity, 'I'm going to drown...'

Sam awoke with a start. For several long moments he lay still, uncertain what roused him from his slumber. All seemed in order, a small fire crackling cheerfully in the grate, the sound of a few early summer crickets chirping drifted in the half-open window on a comfortably cool pre-dawn breeze, his companions breathing softly as they slept behind him on the bed. He strained his ears to listen-perhaps Frodo had coughed? But no coughing was to be heard. What had woken him, then? He had a growing feeling that something was very, very wrong but he had no idea what.

Then it occurred to him. *Shouldn't* Frodo be coughing again by now? It had been at least a good half hour since the last fit, and so far that night Frodo had only been able to go about 20 minutes between coughs. With a sinking feeling of dread that he'd singled out the problem, he rolled over to check on Frodo. His master was taking shallow, labored breaths, his chest barely moving from the effort. He was flushed with fever, a slight sheen of sweat coating his face, the area right around his lips beginning to turn blue. Even as Sam moved to act, Frodo's breaths began to slow further, yet remained shallow.

Sam sat Frodo up to help him breathe, moving behind to support him, even as he firmly nudged the sleeping body on the other side of Frodo. "Mr. Merry!" he hissed, trying to wake him and not succeeding. He tried several times before resorting to punching the other hobbit in the shoulder. "Mr. Merry!" he repeated insistently.

Merry finally cracked an eye and slurred, "Wha-?"

"Go get Strider. Frodo's worse."

That got Merry's attention. His eyes snapped open and he rolled off the bed to stand up almost before his body could react and keep him from tumbling to the floor. In an instant he was out the door and down the hall, his feet slapping the cold stone floor in his haste.

Sam reached for and managed to grasp the edge of a cloth from the basin of water placed earlier that night on the table next to the bed. He swiped the cloth repeatedly across Frodo's face and neck, the cool cloth quickly becoming warm as it touched Frodo's fever hot skin. Frodo was breathing a bit better than he had been, but it was still a far sight from what was normal. "Keep fightin', Mr. Frodo!" he urged in a whisper as he tried to adjust the bedding so Frodo was kept warm, but without putting any extra weight on his chest that would add to his struggle.

As Frodo's vision narrowed to a tiny pinprick of light, he could feel himself losing control of his body. Against his every effort, he went limp in the heated water's hold. Finally he lost mastery over his urge to inhale. He gasped, feeling the liquid invade his lungs . . .

Frodo gasped suddenly, startling Sam from his fretting over what was taking Strider and Merry so long. That line of thought became completely irrelevant as Frodo listed forward and started coughing roughly. Sam supported him with an arm across the front of his shoulders, his other hand holding the cloth beneath Frodo's chin to wipe away the thick sputum he knew would be forthcoming. He wished he had more hands so he could do more, but unfortunately hobbits only come with two arms.

As he was lamenting this fact, more hands appeared-two the same size as his, two larger. Merry helped him hold Frodo up-a difficult task, as his entire body was jerking from the force behind each cough-while Aragorn briefly assessed Frodo's condition before turning to his layout of herbs and supplies on a table in the corner next to the fireplace. "Just keep doing what you're doing," he assured the hobbits, his voice raised to be heard over Frodo. Aragorn perused his collection, picking this one and that, until he had a small pile of dried foliage selected. By then Frodo's harsh coughs had been replaced by low wheezing, and Sam appeared at Aragorn's side. "Is there naught I can do to help?"

"If you would build up the fire a bit and get some water boiling..."

Sam was moving before Aragorn finished speaking, quite familiar by now with the sickroom routine. "What are you giving him?" he asked, soon reappearing beside Aragorn, having stoked the fire, put a kettle on, and closed the window to get rid of the draft.

"It's a mixture of several things, a couple for fever, another to help him cough more-"

Sam interrupted. "He don't seem to need anything to make him cough, if you follow me."

Somewhat amused at Sam's statement of the obvious, Aragorn replied, "It's to help him bring up more when he coughs, to help him clear his lungs better."

Abashed, Sam blushed. "Oh. And what's the rest of it for? Looks like it'll be worse than the brew last night."

"Indeed, it will be. Most of these have a rather unsavory taste, and mixed together . . . well, it won't be pleasant. I will add some honey, but not nearly enough to counteract the bitterness. As for what the rest is for, one is for pain, and the last is to thin the stuff in his lungs to make it easier to bring up." He crossed to the fireplace, and poured the boiling water into a pot with the herbs. "We'll need to sponge him down to bring down his fever, and make sure he eats some light broth. And if..." he trailed off, musing to himself, shaking his head at some unspoken thought.

"And if *what*?" Sam asked, puzzled and curious.

Aragorn sighed as he stirred the strong, bitter tea. "And if the herbs don't work well enough, I'll likely have to resort to something else to clear his lungs."

Though it was not stated, Sam knew what he was referring to, and it caused him to blanch and gulp. He'd seen the doctor do that to Marigold once. His mother didn't realize he was even in the room until he'd fled, sobbing, because the doctor was hurting his little sister. Sam hadn't trespassed in a sickroom since. But if Aragorn had to do that to Frodo, he would be there despite his bad experience. He'd stuck by Mr. Frodo through worse, so there was no call for abandoning him now.

~~~~~~

Frodo blinked at Aragorn, knowing the man was talking to him but unable to grasp any meaning from the words as they floated around in his head.

"Frodo? Will you drink this for me?" Aragorn tried again, holding up the mug and trying to motion what he wanted the hobbit to do. But Frodo's unfocused gaze was still unresponsive as he reclined against his cousin. Merry still held him up so Aragorn could administer the tea, and Sam hovered anxiously nearby, ready to fetch anything needed.  
Aragorn sighed in frustration when there was still no answer. He'd been relieved to see Frodo awake after his most recent fit, but now his failure to get the hobbit to do or say anything concerned him. Frodo needed to drink the remedy he'd prepared, more so now than before. "I suppose that means yes," he commented.

But Sam shook his head in disagreement. "I wouldn't try it," he warned. "One taste o' that and he'll spit it right back out."

"I won't let him," Aragorn answered resolutely, gently pulling Frodo's mouth open a bit and carefully pouring some of the mixture in. Frodo's eyes widened, and true to Sam's word, he made as if to spit it out, but Aragorn was too quick for him. Having passed the cup off to Sam, he clapped one hand over Frodo's mouth and pinched his nose shut with the other, leaving Frodo no choice but to swallow. He did so, glaring at the King all the while.

When Aragorn pulled open his mouth, Frodo instantly understood what he hadn't comprehended earlier. The bitterness didn't take him completely by surprise-he knew well enough by now that Aragorn's concoctions *never* tasted pleasant-but this was even worse than he'd imagined. But of course Aragorn anticipated his next move and made him swallow it anyway. Frodo wished he wasn't so predictable sometimes. At least the shock seemed to have restored his gift of speech. "Let me guess-you're going to make me drink *all* of that," he said wryly, the comment sounding more weary than he'd intended.

"Now *there's* the Frodo we know and love!" Aragorn responded with mock gaiety. "And the dear hobbit is most astute, as usual." He winked at Frodo, then turned and reclaimed the mug of tonic from Sam, standing beside him as he perched on the edge of the bed. When he turned back, he had sobered and said, "Yes, Frodo, you need to drink all of this. But first, how do you feel?"

Frodo knew all along that question would be asked, but he still wasn't prepared to make a response. "I'm . . . tired, so very tired . . . " he answered slowly, taking stock of the remainder of his complaints. While he still didn't want to confess how badly he really felt, he realized the point was now beyond argument. "...it hurts to cough... hurts to breathe..." he continued miserably. Aragorn nodded sympathetically and Frodo expected him to say 'I told you so' or something to that effect. But he didn't, to Frodo's relief, though what he *did* say wasn't exactly welcome either.

"This should help with much of that," Aragorn informed him, brandishing the mug like a weapon to punish a stubborn hobbit for his recalcitrance. Frodo grimaced in anticipation, but allowed Aragorn to carefully give it to him in small mouthfuls. Despite Aragorn's care, Frodo gagged on the last swallow, sending him into a new paroxysm of coughs and chokes. Aragorn signalled Sam to get the waiting chamomile tea as he and Merry attended to Frodo.

Mercifully, the bout was a short one; Frodo managed to bring it under control once he successfully swallowed the last of the bitter mixture. He gratefully drank the chamomile tea once he'd settled back against Merry again, and felt himself becoming more and more drowsy. He soon fell back to sleep, hoping as he did so that he wouldn't have that water dream again.

"We should sponge him off, and maybe change his nightshirt," Aragorn said in a low voice once it was apparent that Frodo was asleep. He helped Merry lay Frodo against a pile of pillows, keeping him somewhat upright to make it as easy as possible to breathe. The ill hobbit was pale, even for him, though the slight flush of fever added some color to his pallid complexion. His breathing was still shallow and labored, forcing him to fight for every breath he took. 'Even sleep isn't restful,' Aragorn thought with sadness. He hoped the herbs would be effective, for the alternative would be most unpleasant for all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's illness continues while life goes on as usual in the city.

A short period of peace and quiet followed the flurry of activity involved in sponging Frodo off and redressing him in clean nightclothes. His fever seemed to go down a little, though whether it was due to the herbal brew or the cool sponge bath wasn't certain. Frodo's breathing didn't improve, but it also didn't worsen, making Aragorn reluctant to do anything just yet that may upset the fragile balance. He decided to go ahead and feed Frodo some broth; while it wasn't recommended to feed sleeping patients, Frodo needed all of the sleep he could get, but he also needed the nourishment the broth would provide. Sam and Merry volunteered to take care of the feeding, and Aragorn let them after first making sure they were doing it properly. Aragorn took the opportunity to steal a wink or two of sleep in the large chair in front of the fireplace. After all, he was in plain sight and certainly within earshot if the hobbits needed any help.

A scarce hour later, Aragorn deeply regretted his decision to wait, and wondered if perhaps things would be different if only he'd tried to do more-more herbs, or maybe try to have Frodo inhale herbal vapours to clear his lungs. At the very least, he should not have fallen asleep!

**He's getting worse!" the cry and the shake of his arm woke Aragorn from his doze in the chair before the fire. Merry shook his arm again for good measure, then disappeared from view, undoubtedly headed for the bed. Sam was kneeling next to Frodo on the bed, facing his master and holding Frodo's head still as he bathed his face with a cool cloth. The flush in Frodo's cheeks made it apparent his fever had spiked again, and when Sam let go of his head, he turned it slowly from side to side, as if searching for an escape from the oppressive heat entombing his body. His face was lax and grey, his parted lips distressingly blue. He had to struggle desperately for even the most meager breaths, and from the sound of it, Aragorn was amazed the hobbit was still able to breathe at all. Obviously the herbs weren't able to clear his lungs. Which left only one course of action.**

"Forgive me, Frodo. I was not thinking clearly," he said softly as he checked the hobbit's temperature and breathing rate in preparation for what he had to do. Aragorn did not want to do this, but Frodo's condition was deteriorating too quickly for any medicine to have time to work. All other options were unusable. Which left only this, despite its doubtful success and the amount of pain inflicted on the patient. Like many knowledgeable healers, Aragorn had abandoned this remedy except as a last resort. He much preferred using herbs, but they had completely failed. The time of the last resort had come.

Sam stood patiently next to the bed, holding the basin ready as Aragorn gingerly lifted and moved Frodo, carefully climbing onto the bed to assume the proper placement for the impending ordeal. Once Frodo was in place, Sam moved so the basin was directly below his face and, grasping it with one arm and holding it steady with his body, he reached out and clasped Frodo's hand. Frodo's other hand clenched and worried the embroidered quilt, gathering it into a handful of damp, wrinkled fabric.

Sam could just barely see a bit of Frodo's face, depending upon how he held his head; the other hobbit was pale and sweating already, and Sam dreaded to think what he may look like during, or after, the procedure. He wished he could have Merry hold the basin so he could reassure Frodo with a touch on the shoulder or by clasping his other hand as well, but Aragorn had sent Merry out on some errand. Sam was unsure whether the errand was real or simply an excuse to remove him from the situation, though he strongly suspected the latter. As Aragorn began, Sam couldn't help but momentarily wish he'd been given some errand as well, but he quickly and sternly rebuked himself for this lapse in sense.

~~  
They were beating him again. He could feel it. He felt detached, floating again in that warm, wet embrace; his perception narrowed until all that kept him tied to awareness was his back and the blows that rained upon it. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Wasn't it obvious that he didn't have It? But they were Orcs, he knew they would abuse a creature long after it was dead, if that suited their purposes. He felt so sore, and the jarring impacts seemed to be unerringly targeted for every area that already ached. He longed to cry out, tell them to stop, but he had learned before that any sound only urged them on. If he stayed quiet, they would soon tire of their sport and leave him alone. Or so he hoped . . .  
~~

Tears of pain dripped from Frodo's tightly closed eyes, splattering into the empty basin. Frodo remained eerily silent, uttering no sound despite being in obvious anguish. He gripped Sam's hand more and more tightly as the abuse continued, until he could hold back no longer. With a pained cry he started to cough. Aragorn ceased the pounding when Frodo began this new fit, and instead rubbed the overly warm back. Frodo coughed so hard he retched, bringing up everything in his stomach along with a portion of the substance in his lungs. As the coughing slowed, Frodo's head began to sag into the side of the mattress from weariness. "No, no, me dear," Sam murmured softly, disentangling his hand from Frodo's grip. He moved slightly closer to the bed and gently lifted Frodo's head so his forehead rested on Sam's shoulder. He gently patted the sweat-damp head in encouragement.

Frodo's coughs eventually calmed into gasping and wheezing. Sam set the basin on the table with the herbs as Aragorn bundled Frodo up in the light blanket that had been covering him. He found they would need to change the bed's linens, for in the severity of the recent bout, not only did Frodo retch, he lost control of another function. It was fairly normal for that to happen under those circumstances, but Aragorn was thankful that Frodo probably wouldn't remember it-he'd be mortified if he knew.

Aragorn was relieved by the improvement he could hear in the hobbit's breathing, and was thankful that the pain he'd inflicted on Frodo had a positive outcome. Frodo was deeply asleep by the time Aragorn moved him from the bed to the chair by the fire, exhausted by the exertions of anguish and illness. But it was not over yet for the hobbit-he still had a fever, and there remained infection in his lungs that still prevented him from breathing normally.

Sam lent what help he could in changing the linens on the huge bed, even though he could barely see over the edge. They again sponge-bathed Frodo and put him back to bed, Frodo obliviously sleeping the whole time.

The dawn crept in as they were so occupied, bringing with it the sounds of a city full of people waking up and getting to their daily business. With the gentle rays of sun creeping in the window came the sounds of people in the corridor outside the room, a few hesitant souls at first, then more traffic as the light outside strengthened. Then came the servants; just one or two at first, but then a whole flock of them came by as word spread that the King was attending to the halflings, one of them being dreadfully ill. Elessar directed two to dispose of the bathwater and replenish the linens; the rest he sent bearing messages to all the ambassadors quartered in the city that the day's councils would be delayed as he tended to other pressing matters.

As the servants left with the last of the bathwater, Merry returned, carefully closing the door against the hustle and bustle of the hallway. He went to Aragorn, who was carefully assessing his supplies to decide what he needed to send for from the Houses of Healing, and said, "Lord Faramir bids me tell you that a soldier of the guard is waiting to speak with you . . . a guard by the name of Esli."

Aragorn straightened from bending over the table and passed a hand over his weary face, muttering, "Esli. Of course... I had forgotten..." He paused, thinking, then said, "Tell Faramir to send Esli here. I will speak with him."

Merry nodded and left, again closing the door behind him, both to guard their privacy and keep out the noise. Sam looked to Aragorn from his seat next to Frodo on the bed and asked, "Are you going to talk to him in here?"

Aragorn looked up and answered, "I may. Or I may just step into the hall, depending upon the noise," he made a vague motion towards the door and the corridor beyond it.

His time to decide was cut short when Merry poked his head back in. "He's here," he announced, without preamble.

"Send him in," Aragorn responded, crossing to the other side of the fireplace.

Merry entered, followed by a hesitant Esli. He cast one curious glance around the room before reddening and looking straight at the floor in front of the King's feet. "I have come as you commanded, sire."

"So you have. Be at ease, son. I will not bite," Elessar regarded him kindly, and Esli ventured to meet his eyes as he shuffled his feet uncertainly. "You have acted most honorably in showing mercy and kindness to the hobbits. For that, you shall be rewarded generously. I am promoting you to the King's Personal Guard; you must report for duty in one week, but until then your time is your own."

Esli blushed. "*Thank* you, sire!" he said fervently, again casting his gaze to the floor. When he looked up again, his eyes were troubled. "How does the halfling, Frodo, fare? He has not been far from my thought since your departure."

Elessar sighed and let his kingly facade crack a little as he glanced toward the bed and the three halflings now huddled upon it. "He... he has had a difficult night, but for now is out of immediate danger."

The guard looked somewhat relieved, and said, "I and my wife will gladly be of service to you in any way we can."

The king looked slightly amused at this seemingly rash offer, and said, "You are married, then? Have you any children?"

"Alas! no, though very nearly we did. My wife was with child, but fell ill, and the terror of that Fell King laid heavy upon her heart. The child was lost the same day the Gates fell, or so I was told by the warden at the Houses of Healing..."

Elessar placed a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I'm very sorry," he said earnestly.

Esli gave him a small smile. "We have managed. The warden assures us she will still be able to bear children, and she has spent the past few months at home recovering, under orders from the warden, of course." He sobered, and lowered his voice a bit. "Which is what concerns me. She needs something to dwell on, other than our loss. I would suggest that she assists the healers, but they have not had much to do of late, with even the most severely wounded from the battle being sent home."

Elessar considered him for a moment and replied, "You are very perceptive. It is likely that something can be found to occupy her time here. Now go home to your wife, tell her what you have offered on her behalf, and if she agrees to it, she may come hither when she will."

"Thank you, sire. I am sure she will agree to it. The empty time has been weighing upon her, and she will be glad for a change." Esli assured the king, bowing deeply before he turned and left.

Aragorn retreated into the depths of the room, coming to sit upon the edge of the bed wearily. Sam looked at him approvingly. "That was right good, what you did for him, but you forgot to give him back his cloak," he said, pointing to the freshly cleaned and mended bundle folded upon the back of the chair before the fire, brought in earlier by one of the servants.

"So I did," Aragorn said ruefully. "Well, he seems certain that his wife will come, so remind me to return it to one of them then."

"Aye. O' course I will." Sam nodded emphatically.

"How is Frodo doing?" Aragorn asked, after a moment's pause, as he looked over at the sleeping hobbit, too tired to get up from the end of the bed for the time being.

"He's still sleepin'. He looks a sight better than he did, and no mistake."

Aragorn laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. "Good. Keep feeding him the broth every couple of hours, and have him drink some tea or water as often as possible, especially after he coughs. He will probably still need to cough every once in a while, but if he starts sounding as bad as he did earlier, send for me at once. I shall be in many endless councils until all the ambassadors are satisfied."

Merry frowned and asked, "Shouldn't you get some sleep first?"

But Aragorn just sighed. "The sooner this begins, the sooner it will be over. I will sleep then."

"Can't Mr. Faramir do it? At least for a little while?" Sam pestered. "You need sleep sure as Mr. Frodo needs it."

Aragorn sat up and smiled grimly at them. "I'm the King now. I don't get sleep until my job is done. And the King's job, my friends, is never done." He stood and gave them a mock salute. "Maybe I'll send Gandalf by to keep you company. And remember, if Frodo gets worse..."

"...we'll send for you straight away." Sam nodded.

Aragorn nodded back and left the room in a few long strides. Frodo's soft half-snores filled the silence left by Aragorn's absence, and Merry and Sam settled down to watch and wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the wide world goes on, Frodo is still sick, hobbits eat, and Esli's wife enters the picture.

Pippin returned soon after Aragorn departed, whining about all of his duties and complaining of being dead tired before divesting himself of the bare minimum of his clothing and rolling into his space on the bed. Upward of five minutes passed before he moved or even spoke. "Merry?" came his muffled voice from deep within his pillow.

"What?" Merry asked, feigning annoyance, but rather pleased that he'd won the bet with Sam, who had thought Master Peregrin was really asleep and would remain so for some time. Merry knew better, and already had a suspicion what Pippin was going to say.

"I'm hungry."

Just what Merry had suspected. But he was ready. "Pip, don't they feed you right after you're relieved of duty?"

A moment of silence followed before a reluctant reply came from the pile of bedding and curly hair that was Peregrin Took. "Well, yes . . ."

Sam snickered, as Merry responded, "Then why are you hungry?"

Pippin sounded insulted. "They don't give us much, and I'm a growing hobbit, you know!" But underneath his voice was teasing. This was a morning ritual, not always said the same way each day but with the same topic nonetheless.

Today was different though, for Pippin's usual complaint reminded Merry and Sam that they had not yet had even first breakfast. Their stomachs growled loudly, and Pippin bounded up with glee. "Let's go get some food, Merry!"

Normally Merry would protest, arguing that he didn't want to bother the already busy palace cooks, but today he put up no argument. With brief instructions from Sam to get something suitable for Frodo, he and Pippin joyfully dashed out the door, headed for their absolute favorite place in the city: the kitchens.

Sam shook his head in amusement as he turned away from the door; he knew full well it would be a while before those truants would return victorious, with arms and trays mysteriously lighter than they'd been upon leaving the cooks' sight. He was more than a bit surprised to see Frodo awake, blinking slowly as if concentrating on something entirely different than what he was staring at. Frodo noticed Sam's movement and turned his head slightly towards him. "Hullo, Sam," he said hoarsely. "What's happened? I seem to have misplaced several hours. And," he grimaced as he shifted slightly. "I am rather sore..."

For a moment, Sam wasn't sure what to reveal and what to keep from his master, so he decided to disclose the bare minimum. "You've been bad sick, Mr. Frodo," he stated simply. "Would you like something to drink?"

Frodo considered him for a moment. "You're avoiding the question. But that's all right, I suppose . . . Where are Merry and Pippin?"

"Now who's avoiding the question?" Sam teased. "They're raiding the kitchens, as usual. Now here," he continued, picking up a mug of water and holding it up to Frodo's dry lips, "drink."

Frodo sipped it obediently, too tired -and yes, even thirsty- to argue with Sam. It took him a while, but he managed to finish it all, much to Sam's delight. By then he could barely keep his eyes open, and Sam urged him, "Just go ahead and sleep, Mr. Frodo. I'll be right here." Frodo needed no encouragement, and was soon asleep once again.

Sam sat back and looked at Frodo appraisingly. His master was still too pale, his fever seemed to be climbing -his face was flushed and had a thin sheen of sweat- and his breathing still sounded congested and labored. But he was not nearly so bad off as earlier that morning.

  
Merry and Pippin returned more quickly than Sam had expected, bearing heavy-laden food trays with a wide assortment of goods filched and begged from the stern cooks. They set the food down on two short tables positioned by the window for that purpose. In this instance, they really would have preferred to sit on the bed to eat, but there was no way to get the trays up onto the bed without spilling everything all over. Sam slid down off the bed and came over to survey the spread. There were warm rolls, plates of sliced meats and cheeses, several stacks of steaming pancakes with a miniature jug of syrup on the side, a bowl of scrambled eggs, a platter of juicy sausages, and a couple of covered dishes whose contents weren’t immediately discernible.

Merry pointed to one of the covered bowls. "That’s some chicken broth for Frodo, and the head cook also made me take a pitcher of ‘her special tea’, she called it. It smells like mint and chamomile."  
Curious, Sam picked up the pitcher and sniffed. "Aye. Chamomile and... peppermint, if I don’t miss my guess."  
Merry nodded. "So, there it is. How is he?" he asked quietly as the three sat down in small chairs made for them and began attacking the food in true hobbit style.

Sam had to swallow a bite of roll before answering. "He woke up just a bit ago, asking what happened and such. I made him drink some water, and then he went back to sleep."

"So he’s all right?" asked Pippin, having consumed a stack of pancakes and several large spoonfuls of eggs, enough to curb his raging appetite so he could safely turn his attention to the conversation without being in danger of immediately starving.

Sam shot him a disbelieving look and retorted, "Does he look all right to you? No, he’s not better yet, though he’s improved a good deal from earlier."

"Oh." Pippin returned to concentrating on his food.

There was silence as the hobbits finished eating, Merry and Pippin ensuring there was nary a crumb left behind. Sam glanced toward the bed every so often, checking on Frodo, and trying to decide when would be the best time to feed him. The same thought was on Merry’s mind as Pippin stacked the empty plates and bowls. "Should we wake him to eat, or just feed him like we did earlier?"

Sam contemplated the choice. He answered slowly, "Well, he needs his sleep . . . but it’s a sight easier to feed him when he’s awake . . ."

The debate was cut short by the sound of coughing from the bed. Sam was up in a flash, with Merry close behind. Merry boosted Sam up onto the bed, then climbed up himself. Sam sat close to Frodo, helping him sit up and lean forward a bit, as Merry reached over him for the cough cloth for Frodo to spit into, if necessary. Frodo coughed harshly, each intake of breath spurring new spasms. Sam gingerly rubbed Frodo’s back, trying carefully not to put too much pressure on the bruised flesh. After several moments that seemed to drag on into eternity, the fit ended, leaving Frodo winded and gasping, his face red from exertion. As Sam helped him lay back against his pillows, Pippin -or at least his curly head- appeared at the side of the bed. "I’ve brought the soup and that tea, cousin," he offered helpfully, holding up the dishes for Merry to take.

"Thanks, Pip. Why don’t you come on up and go to sleep?"

Pippin’s reply wasn’t audible, but his head went bobbing around the bed and soon he appeared in his usual spot. Merry handed the soup bowl to Sam, while he poured some tea and offered it to his cousin. Frodo didn’t say a word; he simply laid there with his eyes closed, breathing in little gasps. He drank some of the tea, and swallowed some soup, all without even looking at them. After finishing a cup of tea and about half of the broth, he closed his mouth and shook his head when Sam urged him to have more. "All right, then," Sam sighed as he pulled up the covers and securely tucked Frodo in.

"Sleep well, cousin." Merry said softly, leaving a kiss on Frodo’s brow before sliding off the bed to dispose of the dirty dishes.

~~~~~~

When Gandalf stealthily opened the door and peered inside about an hour past midday, the room was peaceful; two lumps lay sleeping on the bed, and the other two hobbits sat at the table by the window and conversed quietly. He could see it was Frodo lying on the far end of the bed, the dark hair against the pillow being a dead give-away. A closer glance identified Meriadoc and Samwise as being seated at the table, Samwise of course positioned just right so he could keep Frodo in his sight. Which left the other form hidden in blankets to be Peregrin. Perhaps the food would last longer than he'd thought.

Neither of the hobbits on the far side of the room had noticed his presence, so he opened the door wider and cleared his throat as he entered. "I see you've managed to keep yourselves out of any further mischief," Gandalf commented with a smile as the two hobbits jumped in surprise.

"Gandalf!" Merry said, standing hurriedly. Sam followed suit, and both watched as two servants entered behind the wizard, carrying loaded food trays. "Ah, just in time for luncheon," Merry observed with a sage nod.

As if having a sixth sense for that sort of thing, Pippin sat up and pulled a blanket off his head. "Why, Gandalf, how thoughtful of you!" he said with an impish grin, quickly disentangling himself from the quilts and blankets and hurrying over to the table now laden with foodstuffs.

Gandalf gave a mock groan and threw his hands in the air. "There goes any chance of a quiet lunch!" He chuckled and winked at Pippin. Turning to the bed, he sobered and asked, "How is he doing?"

Sam followed Gandalf to the bedside and watched as Gandalf laid a hand on Frodo's forehead, then grasped one of the limp hands lying on the coverlet. "He's been sleeping, and he's even eaten and drunk some. Early this mornin' it was real bad, but he pulled through..."

Gandalf closed his eyes as if thinking, then after a moment or two, opened them again and nodded. "Good. You make sure he cooperates, understand?"

"O' course, Mr. Gandalf! It's what I intend to do anyhow."

Gandalf smiled at the faithful's gardener's exuberance and patted him on the shoulder. "I know. Now come and have a bite..."

As they approached the table, Merry asked, "Why are you here, anyway? I'm sure there is more to it than bringing starving hobbits a bite to eat."

Gandalf laughed. "You've found me out! You're too clever to be fooled by an old wizard's tricks anymore, Meriadoc. It is true, I brought the food as an excuse to check up on you rascals and make sure nothing else has gone awry. So it's a good thing you were behaving when I arrived or I might have had to do something drastic."

"Like make them skip a meal?" teased another familiar voice from the doorway.

"Hullo, Aragorn!" Merry and Pippin chorused cheerfully around bites of food.

The King casually ambled over to the table, swiped a roll, and chewed contentedly. Being polite, he waited until he swallowed before speaking. "Before you even ask, I also have a reason for coming: there is to be another banquet tonight. Merry, Eomer has asked that you attend him, and Pippin, I would like you to attend me. Sam, you also are invited of course, but everyone will understand if you do not wish to attend."

Merry and Pippin nodded in acknowledgment of their duties for the evening. Sam crossed his arms resolutely and replied, "I think you already know my answer: I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, that's what I suspected. Which reminds me, I have someone to introduce to you all." He turned and beckoned. The hobbits followed his eyes, noticing for the first time the couple standing shyly by the door. Sam and Merry recognized Esli from that morning, and both reasoned that the woman standing next to him was his wife.

She wore a modest dress of muted brown, her dark blonde hair plaited and wound round her head, as was the usual mode for the women in the city. The sorrow and grief in her eyes added a solemn gravity that seemed out of place in her youthful face, and Sam was struck by the thought that if she would but smile, she would be quite comely. She could not compare to the ethereal beauty of Lady Arwen and Lady Galadriel, nor the proud fairness of Lady Eowyn, but she had a handsomeness of her own.

"As you may remember, this is Esli," Aragorn reminded them, "and this is his wife, Jael. She is going to assist in taking care of Frodo, especially when I cannot be present. Apparently she has had some training and experience in such matters, and will be a great help."

Esli straightened in pride, hugging his wife a little closer to him with his arm around her waist, but Jael blushed deeply and avoided all their gazes. After a moment of regaining her composure, she murmured, "I am grateful to be of service," as she curtsied awkwardly.

The hobbits stood as Aragorn introduced them, each bowing slightly as his name was given. They returned to the remainder of their luncheon when Aragorn and Jael, still escorted protectively by Esli, proceeded to the bed, discussing Frodo's condition.

Merry and Pippin didn't seem to care much about this new female, but Sam was curious what she was really like. Her voice was soft and kind-sounding, but held a note of melancholy that echoed the misery in her eyes. He wondered what made her so sad, though he supposed he would find out soon enough, seeing how she would be helping to take care of Mr. Frodo and all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another banquet, Sam and Jael talk hobbits, and Frodo... is still sick.

The afternoon passed about as uneventfully as the morning had, with Frodo sleeping the entire time, Merry and Pippin acting properly subdued, and Sam simply sitting watch, occasionally bathing Frodo's face with a damp cloth, but most often just content to watch and think. All of the Big Folk had left the room after Aragorn and Jael finished discussing Frodo, Aragorn and Gandalf to return to the endless debates with the foreign ambassadors, and Esli and Jael to gather a few medicinal items and collect some of Jael's belongings so she would be able to stay for several days without needing to return home.

When evening came, Merry and Pippin dressed in their respective liveries: silver and sable, green and white; ready to do noble service at the banquet tables that night, which was sure to include enough food and drink to satisfy even the hungriest of hobbits. Esli arrived escorting Jael and carrying her things: a small bag and a basket of the herbs and such she'd collected for Frodo's care, and left with Merry and Pippin, headed to the banquet.

Once Sam and Jael were left with only themselves for company, it was difficult to tell which one of them was more bashful in the presence of the other. Sam was a mite uncomfortable being alone in the presence of a lady -Frodo, as he was sleeping, did not count- and Jael was unsure of herself in the company of these halflings, only having heard of them in stories and rumours prior to that afternoon.

Given the uncertain atmosphere, they were forced to interact based on the only thing they had in common: Frodo, which provided conversation enough, especially at first.

"Has he woken at all recently?" Jael inquired, visually assessing the patient before moving to the physical examination.

Sam shook his head. "Nay, Lady Jael. He's slept all afternoon, though I can't say I'm surprised." He watched rather skeptically as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Frodo's forehead for several moments before withdrawing.

Jael noticed his expression and explained with a rueful grin, "The lips are much more reliable at measuring temperature, especially since my hands tend to be chilly." She briefly touched Sam's knee to demonstrate and he about jumped out of his skin. He would definitely have used a stronger word than 'chilly'!

She placed her hands gently on the sides of Frodo's face, who seemed to enjoy the chill on his fevered skin, and moved his head slightly as if searching for them when they were removed. "His breathing sounds more congested than it did earlier," she commented.

Sam listened carefully, then realized she was right. It must've slowly been getting worse, for he had not noticed the change. "Should we do something?" he asked, immediately concerned.

Jael paused, seeming to weigh her options before replying. "No, not just yet..." she answered slowly. "He still seems to be sleeping deeply, so it is not bothering him much at the moment. But if it gets much worse, I have something I'd like to try."

Sam nodded, and silence reigned for long moments as he sat on the bed and she bustled purposefully around the medicine table. When she finished whatever she was doing, she pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat with a sigh. "And please, just call me Jael. You are... Master Samwise, correct?"

"J-just Sam, if you please, L... I mean, Jael..." he stammered uncomfortably.

"All right. Sam. And the two taller ones are... Meriadoc and Peregrin, yes? Or do they have shorter names too?"

"Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin," Sam confirmed with a nod.

Jael gave him a questioning look. "Why are they so much taller?"

Sam shrugged. "Ent draughts or some such nonesense. I don't understand it none myself, though Mr. Frodo might."

"How do the four of you know each other? If you don't mind me asking, that is," she added hastily.

He was amused at her sudden discomfiture, as if she'd abruptly remembered her manners. "Mr. Frodo, Mr. Merry, and Mr. Pippin are all cousins of each other. It's rather complicated by Men's standards..."

"What about you? Are you related?"

Sam had to resist the temptation to laugh. "No, no. I'm just Mr. Frodo's gardener."

"And very close friend," added a soft rough voice from next to Sam, who looked down, startled. "Don't sell yourself short, dear Sam. I love Merry and Pippin dearly, but I doubt they would have carried me..." he trailed off with a pained expression, swallowing hard against yet another cough tickling his throat.

"Sh, Mr. Frodo. No use dwelling on that now; it's over and done with," Sam reassured him.

Jael listened with interest, though she moved away from the bed to allow them some semblance of privacy. Of course, she'd heard rumors and stories of the halflings' deeds in the war, but she had doubted the truth of most of the tales. Yet it seemed that some of the more fantastical parts were indeed true, which made her wonder about the rest. She busied her hands with ladling some broth into a bowl from the pot keeping warm in front of the fire.

Sam silently accepted the bowl from Jael, and as she turned to make some tea, she could hear him coaxing his master into reluctant cooperation. He obviously knew just how to wheedle and blackmail his employer into obedience.

When Jael returned with the tea, Sam handed her the bowl as he took the mug. Not even half the broth had been eaten; she gave Sam a questioning glance and he shook his head-he couldn't get Frodo to take any more. Frodo drank the tea no more willingly than the broth. After a few swallows, he had to break off to breathe, gasping shallowly, trying to force enough air into his lungs. His face glistened in the firelight, slick with sweat. Abruptly he struggled to sit up, chest heaving from the effort. Sam supported him, anxiously searching Frodo's face for an explanation for this sudden movement. Frodo's eyes were distant, unseeing, clouded with confusion and illness.

"How much farther, Sam?" he finally whispered. "...it's getting so hard to breathe..." Sam sat puzzled for a few moments, trying to figure out where Frodo's memory had gone to. His best guess was Mount Doom, where the foul vapors of Mordor were at their thickest and breathing was both difficult and painful. "...it's so heavy..." Frodo's hand began an upward motion Sam knew all too well; he gently caught Frodo's searching hand, cupping it in both of his. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo. It's over. Just rest now, me dear." He helped Frodo lie back down, stopping mid-motion when Frodo's breath caught in his throat and he choked. Everything froze for an agonizing moment, then Frodo began to cough, deep, wrenching coughs that left him breathless.

Sam automatically moved to support him, leaning him forward and keeping him upright with an arm across his shoulders, his other hand on Frodo's forehead.

Jael watched critically for a few moments, then moved away and placed a large kettle on its hook above the fire. She bustled over to the table, picking up this and that, though Sam could not guess what she intended to do, his view blocked by her back as she bent over to make some preparations.

Frodo's coughing did not last long, after which he sagged limply against Sam, panting heavily. In the relative silence, Sam could hear Jael humming as she worked, a haunting melody that almost seemed Elvish. Though of course it must be admitted that Sam thought most music sounded Elvish, except for the bar songs Merry and Pippin enjoyed so. Unable to contain his growing curiousity, he asked, "What song are you humming?"

Startled, Jael turned around quickly, and seemed quite embarrassed that she'd been heard. Coloring slightly, she looked down and said, "Oh, it's nothing. Just a little melody I used to play..."

"Play? What did you play?" Sam scolded himself after blurting out the question; it seemed obvious she wasn't comfortable talking about it, so he had no business asking.

But before Sam could apologize for his rash words, Jael spoke. "I used to play the harp," she admitted, looking wistful. She stared into space, seeing another time and place in her mind's eye. After a moment, she snapped herself back to the present, and said briskly, "But it's no use trying to live in the past. How is he?"

Sam had even more questions following her admission, but these he kept to himself. Looking down at Frodo resting against him, pale and sweating, he replied, "Well nigh exhaustion, I'll warrant. An' his breathing still don't sound too good."

"All right, let's try this," Jael said, picking up the basin she'd been stooped over and placing it on the bed along with a folded sheet. She retrieved an invalid tray and placed it over Frodo's lap, also bringing the basin to put on the tray. There was a pile of very pungent crushed and chopped herb in the bottom of the basin, and Sam's eyes watered from the strength of it when he took an experimental sniff.

Jael chuckled dryly at his expression as she fetched the now-boiling kettle from the fire, and poured the water into the basin. Clouds of heady steam billowed up, the minty smell refreshing and soothing. "I need you to lean him over this, just how you were holding him earlier," she instructed Sam, who quickly did as he was told. Jael pulled the folded light sheet off the bed and expertly dropped it over Frodo's head and the basin, keeping all of the beneficial steam concentrated.

Sam could feel the steam condensing and cooling on his hands underneath the sheet, making them feel uncomfortably clammy and chill, but he didn't move. He remained still for some time, the treatment continuing until the water emitted steam no longer, and by then, Frodo's breathing seemed to have eased somewhat. Jael moved the bowl to the table next to the bed and took away the other supplies, and Sam eased Frodo against him once again. His master's hair was soaked through and his curls were plastered to his head, from either the condensing vapor or sweat from the combined heat of fever and steam. Jael knew that would happen, and returned with a towel to gently dry Frodo's hair. Then she wiped Frodo's face and neck with a cloth dipped in the herbal water, and asked Sam, "Would you pull off his nightshirt so I can wipe his chest and back too?"

"Yes, of course," he assured her, moving to do so. Carefully arranging the covers as he gradually moved the shirt, it wasn't too long before the damp fabric was free. Frodo slept through it all, seeming to bask in the attentions of the warm aromatic cloth as Jael gently bathed him.

Soon she was finished with the front of his torso, and motioned for Sam to lean Frodo forward so she could bathe his back. Neither of them were quite prepared for what they saw when he did.

To say his back was quite bruised would have been an understatement. Black, purple, and blue thickly mottled his skin, broken neatly in half by the white ridge of his spine. Sam swallowed hard as he thought about how much force would be behind so many dark bruises, and wished he hadn't thought about it at all. He knew Strider only did it because he had to, but to think of anyone hitting Frodo that hard made him rather upset.

Jael had seen such bruising before, of course, but to see it on one so small was difficult. Especially as it brought back memories from a time in her life she'd rather forget. She steeled herself for the task, and gingerly wiped the halfling's back, afraid to put any pressure on the bruises for fear of hurting him further. Frodo stiffened when she first touched him, but as she continued her massaging motions, he slowly relaxed as if reassured she wasn't going to inflict any more damage to his aching back.

~~~~

Some time later, Frodo had been washed and redressed, and was sleeping peacefully under the soft quilts. A servant had come by shortly thereafter, bearing a tray laden with some of the choicest dishes from the banquet, courtesy of the King. Sam was reluctant to leave Frodo's side, even for food. Jael tried several tacks to convince him to come down, and, hands on her hips, had to resort to blackmail. "Master Samwise, you will do your master no good if you become as ill as he! Now come and eat something before I send for the King to reason with you."

Her tone sounded so much like his mother that Sam sheepishly climbed down, half expecting her to assign him extra chores for giving her sauce. Once the food was in front of him, his appetite certainly wasn't lacking, and Jael watched in amazement as he ate. He assured her that this was normal for all hobbits, though of course Merry and Pippin could outeat him anytime, owing to their size. She was skeptical for a while, but his earnest manner convinced her he was being completely serious, so she accepted his statement as true and was in awe at the amount of food that must be necessary to support a whole community of these ravenous beings.

Once the dishes were empty, hobbit and woman returned to their former places around the invalid, who still slept, albeit uneasily. Had he been in full health, it was likely he'd be tossing and turning, but instead he clenched fistfuls of quilt, fitfully worrying the fabric into damp bunches. Sam tried to reassure him, holding one hand and rubbing it soothingly as he murmured reassurances, but to no avail.

Jael placed one cool hand onto the hobbit's fevered brow and the other on his other arm, and began to hum soothingly. The lullaby did its work almost immediately; after a few minutes, not only was Frodo sleeping deeply, Sam was having trouble keeping his own eyes open, his eyelids seeming to have a will of their own. As he visibly drooped, Jael guided his head down to a pillow, easing a quilt over his drowsing form. She continued to hum, enjoying the opportunity to utilize her musical knowledge from childhood.

Sam was still napping when Aragorn came in, having excused himself briefly from the festivities. He and Jael were softly conferring, discussing what to do next, when Sam began to rouse.

". . . tried the . . . helped, but . . . perhaps with . . ."

"Hmm . . . might work . . . earlier I tried . . ."

". . . could tell . . . bruising . . . hesitate to . . ."

". . . let's do that . . . now?"

A pause. "Yes . . . be best . . ."

Sam blinked slowly as he tried to reconcile what he last remembered with where he now found himself. He sat bolt upright as he recalled more, and heard Jael laugh softly. "He's still sleeping. Don't worry."

"Good morning, Sam," Aragorn said, amused. "I'm glad you're awake. You can help us."

Sam looked confused, peering past them to see darkness still settled around the window; it wasn't really morning, then. "What are you going to do?"

Jael answered him, Aragorn having moved to the medicine table. "We're going to try the inhalation therapy again, so we'll need you to hold him up like last time." She held Frodo in a sitting position as Sam scooted into place.

Aragorn brought over the basin, the crushed mint accompanied this time by some athelas as well. He poured in the water and the steam billowed up, the combined fragrance of mint and athelas very refreshing and uplifting. To Sam, the time spent waiting for the steam to do its work seemed interminable, though in actuality it took no longer than last time.

Thankfully the addition of the athelas seemed to make a difference, and Frodo didn't sound nearly so congested when Aragorn finally deemed him finished. Before they laid Frodo down again, Aragorn took a quick look at his bruised back, winced, and shook his head. "I definitely don't want to do that again," he murmured.

When a servant appeared at the door, saying the visitors were noticing the King's absence, Aragorn left reluctantly, and promised to come by again once the banquet was over. Jael settled back in her chair, resuming work on the mending she had brought along, and picking up her humming where she had left off. Sam sat beside Frodo still, torn for the moment between keeping vigil and listening to his eyelids' desire to go back to sleep. With an encouraging nod from Jael, his eyelids won out.


	8. Chapter 8

It is a well-known fact that rumor flies on faster wings than truth, the outlandish nature of those augmented fictions more readily shared than the drab reality of the matter. But this time, the hearsay spreading through the third circle was not so far from the truth.

A burly sour-faced man strode up to the counter and beckoned to the barkeep, who hurried over, two pints in hand, nervously eyeing him and his companion, similar in build and temperament. "We need to talk," he said in a low voice and the barkeep nodded in understanding. The man and his companion moved to a table in a shadowed back corner where they could see without being seen.

After some minutes passed, Joram came and joined the soldiers, sitting down heavily while wiping his hands on the towel tucked in his belt. "What do you want now?" he asked peevishly, glaring at each of them in turn. For though they were soldiers, they were unofficially in his employ. He would have them do him favors, like jailing unruly or unpaying customers, and in return they asked their own favors, like free ale and certain amounts of money if a job was particularly difficult or unsavory. It was a typical arrangement of extortion and bribery, and had served both sides rather well.

The first man leaned forward. "We gonna lose our jobs 'cuz o' you," he hissed. "And we can only guess what's gonna happen to you."

Joram looked from one to the other, confused. "What you sayin'?" he growled, expecting it to be a low joke.

"Remember the li'l runts you had us take outta here?" the other asked with a sneer.

"Yeah, what 'bout 'em?"

"They rilly *was* friends o' the King!" the first roared, slamming his fist on the rickety wooden table, spilling his drink. The noise drew curious stares from the rest of the customers, all other conversations dying down. Joram glared at the soldier, and none of them said anything for several long minutes. When nothing further happened, the patrons returned to their drinks and previous conversations.

Finally Joram reacted. "You ain't serious!" he cried. "You just pullin' one over on me."

Both soldiers shook their heads. "Word is them was two o' the halflings that was important in the War." the first contributed.

Joram paled. "D-does the King know about what.... happened?"

The soldiers looked at each other and shrugged. "Hard to say. He's been busy with all them foreigners." The second one leaned forward and continued, "If he don't already, he will soon. I heared that filthy guard Esli got promoted by the King hisself! An' you know Esli don't like you none. He'll be sure to tell the King."

Joram's face darkened in anger. "Esli! How'd he get hisself promoted?!"

"He was on duty in the gaol when the King come 'n spring the li'l rats. But how that put 'im in the King's favor I don' know..."

"If the King sprung 'em, he *already* knows what happened, you dolt!"

The first soldier took a large swig from his mug and wiped his mouth on his grimy sleeve before answering. "Nay. He knows they was in gaol, but he don't know yet who put 'em there! 'E's been too concerned with the sick one to git to thet part yet."

"Sick one?" Joram asked, again confused.

"Aye. One o' 'em's real sick. Folk say he got sick in gaol. So's you better watch you'self, Joram. If 'e dies, it gonna go real bad wi' you."

"If I go down, I'm takin' the both o' you with me," Joram said stiffly, scowling at each disheveled soldier in turn. A pause, then "What you gonna do?"

"Tha' depends. What do you want us to do?" asked the second with a gleam in his eye. "An' be sure, it'll cost ya."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he replied, "Eh, the usual terms will do."

The soldiers exchanged glances. They had anticipated that. "Double," the first replied smugly.

"Double! You tryin' to ruin me? I already stand to lose more than the both o' you combined!" Joram cried in dismay.

"Which is why you should pay more to git outta it," the soldier rejoined with a sneer.

Joram sighed and wearily passed a hand over his perspiring face. "How much time have we got? I need to think."

"Hard ta say. The King may wait 'til the runt dies or gits better, or he might to som'thin' sooner. Nobody knows."

"Well... come back tomorrow. I'll have a plan by then," Joram declared briskly as he stood. As he moved away to attend to his customers once more, the soldiers watched him with malice in their eyes.

"Should we do it, then?" the second whispered eagerly.

The first sat thoughtfully, then slowly shook his head. "Let's see what 'great plan' 'e comes up wi', and if he don't make it worth our while, *then* we'll do it."

They both returned to their drinks and silently watched the usual comings and goings.

~~~~

Several hundred feet above The Angry Bull, another conversation was taking place. King Elessar was sprawled on the couch he currently called his bed, Gandalf in the upholstered chair by his head, and Faramir next to him in a chair borrowed from the hallway. All three fixed their attentions on Esli, who sat nervously fidgeting in the high-back chair pulled over from the stern wooden desk. He blushed and struggled to regain his tongue, cowed by having three distinguished personages from the War train their eyes upon *him*.

"Now, my dear Esli, we will not hurt you," Gandalf assured him, trying to keep the mirth from his voice.

Elessar took a sip from his wine as he commented off-handedly, "We have plenty of time. It'll be several hours yet before the ambassadors rouse from their drunken stupor." All in the room held similar glasses, though Esli in his nervousness seemed to have completely forgotten about his. After another silence seemed to stretch interminably, Elessar said, "Now, the gaol records indicate that Tenin and Meshi brought both Frodo and Sam in, at different times. What do you know about them?" He referenced some parchments in his hands, procured forcefully from the gaol earlier that morning.

"They are soldiers, among the more unsavory lot o' them, and quite mean. They and the others working in the gaol greatly enjoy tormenting prisoners in any way they can, pouring water over them, denying them the use of the privy, forcing them to fight one another so the guards can gamble on the results..." he trailed off as the King's face darkened, angered further by each indecency enumerated by his informant.

"Is that all?" he growled, though Esli seemed to understand the King's anger was not directed at him.

"Oh, no, sire. I'm sure there's more, but I cannot bear witness to it myself, and rumors cannot always be believed."

Elessar nodded, staring down at the pages in his lap, collecting his composure. Faramir was likewise disturbed; this behavior even towards criminals was not to be tolerated. Gandalf, implacable as ever, gave no indication of what he was thinking.

"So why was it the same two soldiers bringing in the hobbits? And who told them to bring them in?" Elessar finally continued his questioning.

"Well, those two rascals have an 'arrangement' with the bar owner, and they take care of anyone he wants to get rid of."

"What do you know of this bar owner? His name is . . . Joram, correct?"

Esli clenched his jaw and fisted his hands in fury. He spat out, "Yes. His name's Joram. An absolute waste of space is what he is. A scoundrel and a murderer, besides."

Gandalf and Elessar exchanged a meaningful look. There was obviously more to this than originally thought. Gandalf took the lead. "It sounds as though you have a personal quarrel with this Joram," he commented placidly.

"I do!" he cried, leaping from his chair to stalk the room in his agitation. "He staged a bar fight that ended in the death of someone I cared for..."

Elessar held up a cautioning hand. "I think you'd better start from the beginning."

This prompted a torrent of words to spill from Esli, detailing the story of his brother-in-law and comrade in arms, who had gotten on the bad side of Joram's legendary temper. A large brawl was staged while they were on duty, and they were called to disband it. They'd quickly been caught up in the fight, all its participants suddenly turning on the two soldiers, overwhelming them. Both were injured, his brother-in-law having been stabbed repeatedly.

"He was bleeding too much... I couldn't stop it!" he exclaimed, remembering the full horror of that night. "We were dragged out and dumped in the alley. No healers were called, no aid was given. Nothing. We were left there, and I could not help him. My own injuries were severe, so I could not go for aid. We were not found and cared for until morning, when a kind old housewife further down the alley came out with her trash. But by then it was too late." He buried his face in his hands and wept. "It was a sore blow for Jael. Her brother was all the family she had left..." he shook his head in sorrow as he wearily sat back down, his energy completely spent in his outburst.

"I thank you for telling us this," Elessar told him gravely. "Now these wrongs will be addressed properly."

But Faramir was disturbed. "Why was this not brought before my father? He should have addressed it at that time."

Esli nodded at him. "The matter was brought to your father, my lord, but he . . . had other things diverting his attention," he answered as diplomatically as possible.

Faramir shook his head in dismay. "Yes, I have no doubt that he did. I wonder, how many other injustices have gone unnoticed?"

"There is no way to tell," Gandalf answered sagely. "We can only correct those brought to our attention."

The others nodded in agreement, and it was quickly decided. The men involved in Frodo's case would be brought into custody by nightfall. Faramir soon left with Esli to take down the necessary information to ensure the proper men would be arrested.

Elessar stared into the fire thoughtfully, then said, "But what is to be their punishment? I must be just and merciful, yet all I want to do is make them suffer as cruelly as they have made others suffer..."

Gandalf said nothing, knowing the King would settle on the best solution is given some time to think. So when the King suddenly sat up, Gandalf knew he'd come up with a good idea.

"I shall consult with Frodo. He is the victim of their cruelty, he shall decide their punishment."

~~~~

As Frodo began a slow return to consciousness, he felt too comfortable to move. He was cozily wrapped in several soft blankets and quilts, though not tightly enough to inhibit his breathing, which was unusually uncongested. He took an experimental breath; no, wasn't back to normal yet. His breath caught a little, then he sighed carefully, successfully staving off a cough. For now.

Gradually he became aware he was leaning against something warm and soft, adding to his feeling of contentment. Frodo let another small sigh escape as he snuggled a little further into his nest. When the cushion behind him moved suddenly, almost as if holding back a chuckle, he realized it was not a some*thing* but a some*one*. That thought woke him up a bit more as he tried to figure out who was holding him this time. He settled on the most likely one: "Sam?" he whispered tentatively.

This time the cushion *did* laugh softly. "No, indeed, Master Hobbit. He is sleeping next to you, if you care to look."

It was a gentle female-sounding voice, but no voice he recognized. He turned his head slightly to confirm Sam's presence, and quickly turned back, blushing. It was certainly a female he was leaning against! And she'd put his head right... He shifted uncomfortably and tried to think about something else. "Wh-who are you?" he finally squeaked.

"A friend," she answered simply. "And the wife of a friend."

While cryptic, at least she gave him some answer... he continued with the next question typical among hobbits. "Have you any children?"

When she failed to respond for several long minutes, he realized he must have committed a huge blunder. "I-I'm sorry...I shouldn't have asked," he apologized humbly.

"No... no, that's all right. You had no way to know. No, I do not have any living children," her voice cracking painfully on the last phrase.

Frodo's mouth went dry as he realized how badly he'd made a mess of things. "I'm very sorry," he said earnestly, pity for this sad woman making him want to help her in any way he could.

She sniffed and seemed to bring her emotions under control. "Since you are awake, will you take some broth and tea?"

He considered her request. He was not particularly in the mood for food or drink -as always seemed to be the case when someone tried to press them upon him- but he also did not want to resist her, seeing that she was obviously still recovering from whatever had happened. So he acquiesced and took some broth and some tea without complaint.

By the time she took the mug away from his lips, he was hardly able to keep his eyes open and had begun to slump further into the blankets. "Just go back to sleep, little hobbit. You need your rest to recover,” she said reassuringly.

"Please... what is your name?" he murmured drowsily.

"Jael."

"Jael..." he repeated, trying to tuck the name into his memory as he drifted back into slumber.

Jael smiled down at her small patient as his eyes slipped closed once again. It cheered her heart immensely that he seemed to be improving somewhat, no doubt thanks to the King's ministrations the night before. They'd given Frodo the peppermint and athelas breathing treatment again when the King returned after the banquet's end. He'd slept peacefully the entire time, though soon after the King left to get some rest his sleep turned fretful. Even her low singing could not calm him, so she'd climbed onto the bed, wrapped him snugly, and held him in her lap, gently rocking until he quieted. She'd been afraid of disturbing him if she tried to put him down, so there she stayed, loosely holding his small hands through the bedding layers.

About an hour later, the King again returned. Sam had just woken up and was on the other side of the bed, efficiently changing into his usual attire. As he threw his nightshirt in the corner before climbing back up to see to Frodo, he briefly wondered how he'd come to be wearing the shirt. He couldn't seem to remember changing...

"How is he doing?" asked Aragorn quietly, putting a hand to Frodo's forehead.

"Still about the same as before. He did wake up an hour ago, and took some broth and tea before going back to sleep. He seemed coherent the entire time."

"Good, good," Aragorn murmured. "And what about you?"

Jael blushed at his attention. "I'm fine. I’m afraid I dozed earlier while he slept."

"That's quite all right," he smiled reassuringly at her. "You need to keep up your strength as well."

Frodo’s three caretakers made soft small talk for some moments until Aragorn remembered what he’d come to say. "When Frodo wakes, I need to discuss something with him."

"What?" asked a certain sleep-slurred voice.

"Forgive us, Frodo. We did not mean to wake you."

He would have waved it off, but his hands were wrapped in the quilts. "That’s all right," he said instead. "You didn’t wake me, I was waking up on my own. So what do you need to discuss with me?"

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed to more easily meet the hobbit’s eyes. "The punishment for the men who imprisoned you. Sam, I want your opinion as well."

"But Aragorn," Frodo protested, "we don’t know they meant us any harm."

Aragorn shot him an incredulous look. "You ended up in gaol, Frodo! And you cannot tell me those guards meant well."

"How was the barkeep supposed to know about hobbits? You know as well as I that most of the people in this city still think halflings don’t exist," Frodo persisted.

Aragorn sighed. "Even if you really were children, that barkeep should not have sent you to gaol. He will be punished, along with the men working for him and the guards at the gaol who were mistreating the other prisoners."

Frodo shook his head in defeat. "All right, if you insist, but I ask that you be lenient. For my sake."

"What would you have me do to them, then?"

"I don’t know..." he said thoughtfully. Sam said nothing, but scratched his head, also deep in thought.

Before either of them had any ideas, a servant entered with a message for the King. Aragorn scanned it quickly, a slow smile creeping across his face. "Perfect!" he declared, smiling at the hobbits. He waved the rolled message. "I do believe I have part of the punishment right here."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men who imprisoned Frodo face the consequences.

Esli took more than a little perverse pleasure in assisting Lord Faramir and the Kings Guard with the arrests. He relayed to the Steward all of the information that could possibly prove useful, detailing the men’s appearances and listing the usual places they could be found. As much as he wished to accompany Lord Faramir to make the arrests, his request to go along was denied, since his presence would make their quarry suspicious and more likely to attempt an escape.

Lord Faramir and his men went first to The Angry Bull. Before entering the seedy tavern, he sent a handful of soldiers around back and left another handful just outside the front door, entering with half a dozen men. Windows with a view of the tavern were soon filled with eyes, and more peered from doors cracked open. The people knew most of the goings-on inside the establishment, both legal and non, though were of wildly differing opinions on the matter. Some were eager to see these things brought to an end, while others looked on in horror, fearing the outcome. But all wanted to watch the situation unfold to better tell the tale to friends and acquaintances.

  
None outside saw the look on Joram's face when the barkeep became aware of the Steward's purpose in coming to his humble establishment, though the patrons inside at the time were more than happy to relate their perspective when all was said and done. The expression of dismay and horror and dread as the proprietor's hands were bound behind his back in full view of a packed room of customers was soon legendary, becoming as widely known as his hot temper. The soldiers in his employ were captured and bound by the guardsmen in the alley behind the building, having made a futile attempt to evade the wrath of the Steward.

The three prisoners were dragged unwillingly to the gaol house in the second circle; the guards on duty also were quickly brought into custody and bound, with some of Faramir's soldiers left in their place. Unwilling to imprison the guilty in a familiar place where escape was possible and certainly likely, Faramir had them locked up not in the gaol house but in the dungeons of the Palace, hardly ever used in recent memory but still quite secure.

  
Once he shared all the information he could, Esli went in search of his wife. As he expected, he found her in the hobbits' room. The King was there as well, seated on the edge of the bed and talking with the four hobbits. He could not discern their topic of conversation from the door, but it had three of the hobbits chattering endlessly, occasionally punctuated by a question or comment from the King, who was thoughtfully considering their words. The other hobbit, the ill one -Frodo?... yes, Frodo- was lying in Jael's lap and seemed to be struggling to stay awake, his eyelids slowly drooping closed only to be jerked back open a few seconds later. If he spoke, Esli could not tell, for his voice was quiet and did not have the energy of the others'.

Jael noticed her husband lurking in the doorway and nodded, soundlessly motioning that she would come over to him in a moment. Her melodic voice interrupted the eager flow of words briefly, and the King gently took the ailing hobbit into his own lap, allowing Jael to leave the bed. Her steps were tentative at first, stiffly adjusting to movement after remaining still for so long.

She soon reached her husband; they greeted one another with an embrace and a small kiss. Esli loosened his hold slightly and looked her in the eyes as he asked, "How are you doing?"

"I am a little tired, but it is nothing," she assured him with a timid smile. "And what about you? You are supposed to be on leave, you know," she teased.

Esli smiled at her good-natured ribbing. "It is worth a month's amount of leave to have you teasing me again."

Jael blushed, then laid her head on his shoulder as she sighed. "These halflings are fascinating creatures. Merely the size of children, but with such big hearts. They're truly a delight to speak with, and having quite contagious good humour. And the amount of food they can consume in one meal is staggering!" She sighed again as she added, "I just wish we could have met under better circumstances. That someone would want to deliberately hurt one of these delightful beings, after all they've done..."

Esli hugged her closer, rubbing her back reassuringly. "Do not worry. The King will soon judge them for their deeds. The Steward and a contingent of the King’s Guard just went to bring them into custody."

"Good," Jael said with uncharacteristic ferocity. Esli did not respond, and they stood in comfortable silence, each drawing strength and reassurance from the other.

Silence draped the room, the conversation on the bed also seeming to have reached a lull, then they heard one of the voices -which to Jael sounded most like Pippin- say, "I don’t know... she looks busy."

Both Jael and Esli were startled and looked toward the bed to see three pairs of hobbit eyes peering at them and the King trying not to laugh. He murmured something to the hobbits, who then rolled and shoved each other off the bed, the larger two heading eagerly out the door right past the couple, and the other casting a look back before somewhat reluctantly following his master's kinsmen.

The room was still for several moments before Jael moved away from Esli slightly. "You should go home and get some rest," she suggested tenderly.

"But what about you?" he asked, always concerned about her welfare over his own.

She cupped his face in her hands and said with a small smile, "I will be fine, husband."

He returned her smile, gently kissing her again before turning to leave. "I will return in the morning. Have you need of anything?"

"No. You were most thorough in your assistance with my packing," her smile broadened as she remembered his enthusiastic attempts to help, going through almost every possession in their small house and asking if she might need it, even down to the cutlery in the kitchen. He blushed, then left, chuckling and shaking his head.

When Jael returned to the bedside, Frodo had finally lost his battle with sleep, or rather was told by Aragorn it was all right to allow himself to lose the battle, since his opinion was no longer required. "The conversation turned to food, as it usually does with them, so they went to get something to eat," Aragorn informed her. "Sam suggested asking if you'd like to go with them, which prompted Pippin's insightful comment."

She chuckled. "I see."

Aragorn moved to lay Frodo back onto the bed but stopped with a frown, instead carefully touching the hobbit's forehead and neck with his hand. He resumed the motion and said, "His fever is rising again."

"Perhaps he is reaching the height of the illness?" Jael suggested.

"That's possible, but it's more likely from the forced exertion of staying awake so long," Aragorn answered regretfully. "I had hoped to pass judgement on the men responsible for this on the morrow, but I also want Frodo to be present, both to witness it and so the men can see the suffering they have perpetrated." He sighed. "But I refuse to further jeopardize his health."

Jael considered for a moment. "He could improve before tomorrow; it is yet early in the day."

  
The next morning dawned clear and bright, and the atmosphere in the hobbits' room was one of uneasy expectation. Frodo had not improved over the course of the previous day, but he also had not worsened; still holding true to his intention to have Frodo present at the judgement, Aragorn decided to hold the audience in the hobbits' room so Frodo would not need to be moved or exert himself in any way. The bed had been pushed into the far corner of the room, and all the other furniture in the room was also moved against the back wall.

One lone chair was placed midway between the foot of the bed and the fireplace, to serve as Aragorn's 'throne', with the other half of the room standing empty to accommodate the prisoners and their guards and any other necessary spectators. The hearing was scheduled for midmorning, though the prisoners were roused at dawn to wait uneasily until being called before the King.

Frodo woke just before the proceedings were to begin; Aragorn gave him a small cup of a stimulant tea, so he sat propped in bed, sandwiched between Sam and Jael, to face his tormentors. Esli arrived at about the same time, standing protectively next to his wife as she sat on the bed. Merry and Pippin flanked Aragorn's chair, both suited in their full regalia, and stood at attention to attend to any of the King's needs during the judgement.

  
The clear bell rang thrice, its sweet notes singing over the city and echoing off the Mount before fading to a whisper on the breeze. It was the third hour past dawn, and the hour of doom for those now escorted before the King.

Elessar sat in stern silence as the men were lined before him and left to face the full force of his wrath. He passively surveyed each prisoner one by one; none dared meet his glance. Finally, he spoke. "You are here to be judged for your deeds toward yonder pair of halflings." He motioned slightly at the bed, though all in the room knew without looking to whom he was referring. "They were unjustly imprisoned, dragged to the gaol house simply for being lost. Once in gaol, they were neglected, never given food nor water, and left to sit miserably in the damp chill. Even had not one of them become seriously ill, measures would have been taken against you, but more so now that your cruel irresponsibility has endangered the health and life of an innocent."

As if to lend credence to the King’s words, the sound of harsh coughing came from the bed. Frodo had felt the cough threatening when Aragorn began to speak, and tried to delay it as long as possible, but only succeeded for a short time.

To the soldiers standing on guard and the servants crowded around the door, the King seemed to sit calmly as the halfling coughed and choked, the woman and the other halfling attempting to attend him. But Gandalf, standing against the wall next to Faramir, saw Aragorn tense in his chair, listening intently for any sign that his aid was needed, but reluctant to be distracted from his task at hand.

After several long moments, Jael was able to help the coughing subside by having Frodo inhale the vapors of a salve she had made the day prior. She smeared a good amount on his chest to forestall any further attacks during the proceedings.

King Elessar continued, once it was apparent Frodo was all right. "What say you to these charges?"

None of the nine spoke. They knew better. If one had the gall to speak on his own behalf in front of Lord Denethor, the Steward's anger would be severe and the punishment much more stringent. Though none of them had yet been before the new King Elessar, it was assumed he would not be much different than the Steward ruling before him. They just wanted the King to get on with it, though they dreaded what the pronouncement would be.

Elessar waited almost to the point of embarrassment for the men before him to speak, to argue for their case or plead for mercy. But they did nothing. The soldiers lining the back wall began to mutter amongst themselves, wondering what was taking the King so long to pronounce the doom upon these troublemakers.

Grieved by the obvious lack of concern these men had for even their own lives, the King finally spoke. "You have forfeited your chance to speak, thus I will proclaim my judgement."

As instructed earlier that morning, the guards stepped forward and made Joram and his two hirelings move back, isolating the six soldiers from the gaol house. Then the King began his pronouncements.

"For your mistreatment of the prisoners, not only the halflings but all men under your supervision, you shall be imprisoned for one week and subjected to the same humiliations you have so willingly forced onto others. Immediately thereafter, you shall be stripped of your rights and privileges as soldiers of Gondor and must take up another trade as your livelihood." A small pause to allow his words to sink in, then, "Such is your doom."

This signalled the guards again, now escorting the other two soldiers to stand alone before the King. "Not only were you involved in the imprisonment of two innocent halflings, you have committed other misdeeds that have been brought to my attention. Accordingly, you are hereby dishonorably discharged from your duties as soldiers of Gondor, and exiled from the city of Minas Tirith and its surrounds."

He sat back slightly, then said, "Now, Lord Faramir, you had a message for me?"

"Yes, my liege," he answered and, stepping forward, handed Elessar a rolled parchment. As the King unrolled and pretended to read it, already very familiar with the contents, he used it to hide a small smile at the former soldiers' growing discomfort and unease. They cast anxious glances at each other, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as they waited for the King to finish so they could escape that weighty gaze. Even Joram looked nervous as he awaited his sentence. The plan was working perfectly.

Finally, he cleared his throat and continued, "As I'm sure you're aware, Minas Tirith is currently hosting a large number of foreign ambassadors. This amount of people has caused certain problems in the usual maintenance and upkeep of the city. It has now come to my attention that the laundries are severely short-handed. Therefore, for the duration of the ambassadors' stay here, you will serve in the laundries, assisting wherever help is needed. Once the embassies leave, you will be free of that duty and must also leave, under pain of death." He looked each one in the eye. "So ends my pronouncement concerning you."

A shuffle of movement, and Joram was presented before the King. His air was one of faint disdain and contempt in an attempt to hide his uncertainty behind bravado. King Elessar met his eyes confidently, completely in control of himself and the situation. He stated, "As much as my heart wishes upon you swift and lasting punishment, I will not order it so, for Frodo has spoken on your behalf." There was a muffled gasp from the audience crowding around the open door, surprised that the small being would seek to excuse the instigator of his torment.

Elessar continued, "He shows much wisdom in this matter and I will heed his counsel. Instead, this doom I pronounce: you also will work in the laundries. Except-" he paused for effect, "Except any laundry- any dirty linens, soiled clothing, and the like- *any* laundry proceeding from this room will be your sole responsibility." Joram’s eyes widened and he seemed to pale slightly as he thought about how much that could be. "I am aware that you have a place of business, so it will be closed for the duration of your duties in the laundries. When Frodo has fully recovered, then you will be free to return to your tavern.

"But this also I pronounce: the first night you reopen your establishment, when all your customers flock back to your bar and the room is crowded with patrons, you shall make a public apology to the two hobbits you mistreated." Joram opened his mouth as if to protest; Elessar held up a cautioning hand. "*And* anytime they choose to patronize The Angry Bull, you will provide all four hobbits, and any companions with them, with food and drink free of charge for as long as they remain in the city." Upon this last, Pippin got a mischievous glint in his eye, and Merry sent him a cautioning look over Aragorn's head.

Jael had to struggle to contain her laughter. She knew full well how much hobbits were capable of eating, and realized that if they stayed for any length of time, there was a good chance they would be able to eat Joram right out of business. It was obvious Joram himself did not yet realize the full extent of his punishment, with that smug look on his face, probably thinking he would be able to go back to life as usual once the laundry nonsense was out of the way. She also realized, which was not funny at all, that Joram would most likely be banished to the laundries for far longer than he seemed to think.

She looked down at the child-sized person sleeping in her lap and sighed. Exactly when he had fallen asleep again she did not know, but she doubted he had heard any of Joram’s sentence, which was what Lord Aragorn most wanted him to hear. Ah, well, he could be told when he woke up. Provided that he *did* wake up. She frowned as this thought came unbidden and unwanted into her mind. There was no reason to think he would not wake up, though she had to be honest and admit that he was not yet recovering as well as could be hoped.

When Jael brought her mind back to the situation at hand, the scribe was reading the pronouncements, going over the details to ensure a proper record. He finished, and the King again spoke.

"Gentlemen, be assured that you will be watched to ensure your completion of these terms." He rose to his feet, signalling the end of the audience. "So says the King. Guards, please escort these gentlemen to their new laundry duties, and the others to the gaol house." They nodded, and herded the men out of the room.

When all had left and the room was empty of soldiers and prisoners, and servants were no longer lurking outside the door, Aragorn allowed himself a chuckle, which quickly developed into full-blown laughing.

"Oh, dear," he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "That's the most fun I've had in a long time."


	10. Turning Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's condition reaches its critical point.

That troll was standing on his chest again, but this time the troll also brought a couple of friends so every intake of air was like trying to lift a mountain with his chest. When he coughed, the trolls jabbed him in the sides and jumped on his ribs, leaving him breathless and aching. More often than not, he just didn't have the energy to cough to try to dislodge the trolls, so he had to keep fighting them for every breath, all his focus concentrated on breathing in, then out, in, out.

He knew there was some reason he was supposed to be awake, something he was supposed to be paying attention to, but that was lost in his focus on simply breathing. The droning voice in the background was very conducive to sleep and he longed to surrender to that urge, but he fought it for a time and tried to discern the words spoken, certain there was something there he should hear.

He could feel that moving cushion behind his back again and gratefully allowed himself to relax against her, appreciating the warmth she emanated. Why was he so cold? His mind was telling him he was as hot as if he were in the heart of Mount Doom, but he shivered, feeling like he was high on the slopes of Caradhras. He could still hear the droning voice near him, but the sounds that voice made remained unintelligible, so he abandoned all thoughts of listening and drifted back into a restless doze.

  
Frodo slept uneasily for several hours after the sentencing, his high fever and difficulty breathing preventing him from truly resting. Both Jael and Sam observed his discomfort and moved in wordless agreement to sponge-bathe him in hopes it would ease him for the time being. Jael used more aromatic peppermint in the water, and Frodo seemed to relax and breathe a bit deeper under the ministrations of their warm cloths.

They were nearly finished when Joram and his two-guard escort entered the room. He was sent to retrieve the rather large pile of dirty linens he was responsible for washing, his every action carefully watched by the soldiers flanking him, hands always on their swords.

Joram stopped before the soiled heap and looked toward the bed momentarily. The expression of disgust and disdain plain on his face made Jael clench her fists in anger. How dare he despise Frodo for something he inflicted! With effort she turned her back on him and resumed her careful motions of sweeping the wet cloth over an area of skin then toweling it dry, so the hobbit would not catch a chill in addition to his other ailments. By the time Sam took charge of redressing Frodo so Jael could take care of the water and cloths, Joram was gone and a portion of the linen hill was missing. It was then she realized he would have to enter the room multiple times, and she was not sure she could resist the temptation to inflict bodily harm on the barkeep. It was painfully obvious he considered his sentence to be no more than a minor inconvenience, after which he could return to his tavern and resume his seedy way of life. She was infuriated by his ability to shrug off the King's chastening with no effect on his behaviour.

Once she disposed of the lukewarm water out the window and gathered up the wet towels and cloths, approaching the heap, Joram returned for another armful of the laundry. He sneered at her as she drew closer, and Jael decided she'd had enough of him. Her face remained cooly neutral, no hint of her intention until he was only a few feet from her. Gathering the linen in a tighter bundle she hurled it in his face. "You are fortunate indeed that Frodo pled mercy!" she cried. "For I would have you stabbed unmercifully and thrown in a dark, dirty alley to die among the rats where you belong." Even before he'd thrown all the towels off his head and shoulders, he moved to grab her, his face red with fury. But the soldiers were faster than the barkeep, and restrained him before he could reach Jael.

Aragorn returned from a conference just in time to hear the end of her cry, and he moved quickly to pull her back before she attacked Joram further in her fury. "Easy, easy," he urged her as she tried to fight her way free of his grasp so she could go dig her fingernails into Joram's face or do *something* to express her anger. Aragorn ushered her back to the side of the bed, and finally released her. Jael was shaking with the intensity of her emotions, but she did not move. Aragorn commanded the soldiers, still restraining their prisoner, "Take him out of here. Send a servant up for the rest." They nodded, unable to salute with their hands full, and dragged Joram from the room.

Sam stood in open-mouthed astonishment at Jael's outburst. He never would have anticipated such behaviour from the quiet, well-mannered woman, and found himself standing helplessly next to the bed, merely an audience to events as they unfolded. Now that the excitement was over, he climbed back onto the bed -he was getting very good at scaling its height without much effort- and resumed his rightful place next to Frodo.

He draped a fresh cool cloth over his master's forehead and dropped the old into the basin, surreptitiously listening to Aragorn and Jael as they began a hushed conversation a few steps from the bedside. He was not directly part of the discussion, but neither of the bigger folk moved to exclude him, so he sat in ignored silence while they debated. They were trying to decide the best course of action for Frodo's care, so he listened without shame, for Frodo's sake.

"I apologize for my conduct," Jael sighed ruefully. "It was most improper."

Aragorn smiled. "It was rather unseemly, but no less understandable. He does not understand nor appreciate the gift of mercy Frodo has given him, and that is most maddening. How does Frodo fare?"

"Not well, my lord. His fever has risen and he is breathing more shallowly. We just finished bathing him, but I'm afraid it did not do as much as we hoped."

"Perhaps we should attempt the inhalation treatment again? Or maybe-" Aragorn blanched, "-pounding?" He cast a worried look toward the bed and Frodo, rubbing his forehead in an unconscious gesture of frustration and concern. Sam recognized the motion instantly, having seen it many times in the months of traveling with the ranger, and also having noted Lord Elrond wear the same expression and rub his head just so, as if trying to ward off a headache. The Man undoubtedly picked it up in his long years under Elrond's care and tutelage.

"Nay, my lord," Jael countered. "Inhalation does no help when the breaths are that shallow. And pounding would fair kill the poor thing. He hasn't the strength to endure that abuse." She drew a bit closer and lowered her voice so Sam had to strain to catch her words. All the while she studied the tips of her worn shoes and the hem of her skirt, unable to be forthright while looking the King in the eye. "If I may say so, my liege, there is nothing further we can do for him. The hands of the King may be the hands of a healer, but there is only so much any healer can do." She paused, swallowing hard. "Even one of the Fair Folk."

Sam's ears perked up at this oblique reference to the Elves. Aragorn caught it too. "What do you mean?"

"I once had a young sister, who also fell victim to this ailment. Despite the care of an Elf trained by Lord Elrond himself, she did not survive. Though I am convinced it was not the illness but her grief at our parents' recent passing which resulted in her own death." Her eyes finally raised and met the King's, sympathy and understanding in her gaze, and finding pity and compassion in his. "The time has come when we must trust in the strength of his stubbornness in clinging to life. From what I have heard of his travails, I am convinced he has a will of adamant. He will pull through. He *will* survive." She spoke with conviction, the voice of truth. Sam found himself nodding in agreement, her words expressing his belief as well. He held Frodo's clammy hand and rubbed it soothingly, disturbed to note its limpness and the traces of bluish colour around the fingernails.

Finally Aragorn nodded reluctantly. "You speak wisely, Lady Jael. You are correct; I doubt even Master Elrond would be able to do much more than we have already done." He paused. "And my condolences on the loss of your sister."

"It is all right; it happened many years ago, and it was for the best. It is good she did not have to endure what happened later. She is no longer suffering, and that is a comfort." Jael squared her shoulders resolutely and straightened proudly. What she said next Sam could not hear, but Aragorn chuckled and the matter seemed to be settled. Naturally, Sam was curious about those later events that Jael's sister was fortunate to miss -and about how Jael had come into contact with Elves!- but now was not the time to ask, so he remained quiet.

  
Frodo's gasping, wheezing breaths continued to rasp for the next several hours. His fever rose a bit more and he remained unaware for most of the time, only coming partially to consciousness at the end of a particularly violent coughing spasm, whimpering in pain and shaking with renewed chills.

Aragorn was in and out of the room in those hours, coming to check on Frodo in stolen moments between meetings and discussions with the foreign ambassadors. Most of the talks were finally winding down, the King being able to set forth terms that were acceptable to the embassy, and all that remained was the formalities of setting down a treaty in the necessary legal terminology. Elessar wished he could simply abandon the lengthy negotiations and attend to Frodo as he should, but his duty to his realm forbade it, and Jael had been right: there was nothing more he could physically do for the ailing hobbit. So he went to the bedside as he could, sparing a word of encouragement to Jael and Sam while reassuring Frodo with a touch to his face, a squeeze of his hand.

As evening drew on and its dusky light faded into night, Jael began to wonder if she was really right after all. Frodo had shown no sign of improvement that entire day, only sliding further into the heated grip of fever, his body a heavy limp bundle on her lap. She again held him in her embrace, her body heat seeming to be the only effective remedy for his wracking chills as the fever raged. Sam diligently wiped Frodo's face and retrieved anything Jael requested, and despite Frodo's worsening condition, he held on to the optimistic view that his master would soon 'turn the corner,' as his mother used to say, and begin to recover.

The first sign of that corner came a few hours after sunset. Gandalf brought in a tray of dinner for Jael and Sam, though Merry and Pippin dropped in and snitched a bite or two as well and were shooed away by Gandalf, who insisted that both woman and hobbit must take a break and eat while he kept an eye on Frodo. He sat in thoughtful silence, feeling the ponderous weight of helpless waiting pressing down on his shoulders. It wasn’t often that he could do absolutely nothing to aid a situation; unfortunately, this was one of those times.

Gandalf was so absorbed in his reflection he almost missed a quiet voice speaking his name. "Gandalf." He quickly turned his attention to the bed, where Frodo lay looking at him wih bleary eyes.

When the hobbit knew he had the wizard's attention, he continued. "Where am I and what is the time?" he asked, a trace of humour in his hoarse voice as he cracked a small smile. Gandalf returned the smile, which quickly faded when Frodo unsuccessfully tried not to chuckle. The wheezing chokes that resulted brought Sam and Jael running, though Gandalf had control of things. One large hand on Frodo's back as the hobbit hunched forward, the other held a cup of water ready for him when he regained some mastery of his lungs.

Frodo sipped gratefully, then murmured "Thank you," as he flopped back onto his pillows and, shivering, pulled the blankets back up from where they had fallen in his lap.

"How are you feeling?" Gandalf asked, waving Sam and Jael back to their food. They went, reluctantly, the wizard's forbidding expression forestalling any argument.

Frodo answered miserably, "Can't breathe... cold..."

As Frodo spoke, Gandalf bent to pick up a quilt that had slid to the floor; he began to lay it atop the ill hobbit, but stopped mid-motion, and instead bundled it around Frodo as he smoothly moved him into his lap. Frodo felt the motion but didn't stop to think about it, too caught up in feeling cold and hot, like an unpleasant combination of being buried in snow and having his head too close to one of Mount Doom's fiery rivers. The memory made him shudder and break into a sweat even as the cold formed a band around his chest, squeezing relentlessly.

Gandalf could feel the heat of Frodo's fever even through the several layers of quilt he was bundled in and frowned. No wonder Frodo felt so cold! Though it was a good sign that he'd been awake and coherent; perhaps the fever was nearing its end?

  
When Elessar concluded the day's negotiations, he returned to the hobbits' room to find Frodo sleeping in Gandalf's lap and Jael and Sam changing the bed linens again. Once the bed resumed its dressed state, the wizard insisted that all three of them take a respite upon it, and he would mind Frodo. Jael was too worn to argue, Sam knew better than to try, and Aragorn tried anyway. But even the King of Gondor is no match for an Istari, especially one who yawns mid-argument.

Midnight found Gandalf thoughtfully chewing on his unlit pipe as the rest of the room's occupants slept. Well, three of them slept, and Frodo dozed; Gandalf doubted anyone could truly sleep while having to fight for every shallow breath. He had heard it said of this illness that its victims drowned in their beds, and now he saw the truth of it. At least the fever had stopped rising and Frodo's shudders had ceased.

But as Frodo stopped shivering, he also seemed to stop responding in any way to the outside world. Gandalf would frequently fold a cool cloth on the hobbit's forehead or wipe his face with it, and at first Frodo would respond with a small sigh or movement, but as time dragged reluctantly on, his responses grew more sporadic and eventually ceased altogether. His breathing remained as labored before, a darkening tinge of blue at his lips and the grey pallor of his skin evidencing his inability to perform such an ordinary activity.

Many times Gandalf found himself wondering if he should wake Aragorn, but stopped himself short. Everything was up to Frodo now, and rousing Aragorn from his much-needed slumber would be for naught.

The eastern sky began to lighten, the dark velvet of night giving way to the soft grey of predawn, and slowly the sleeping world started to stir. As the first shy birds twittered to welcome the sun, Frodo shifted slightly and answered the chirps with a sigh. Gandalf squinted in the diffuse light, discerning a decrease in the hobbit's pallor as he breathed a bit more freely than had been his wont.

When the weary wizard felt his small charge's forehead, he broke into a relieved smile. The fever had broken.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo begins his recovery.

Sam sat bolt upright in bed. Once fully awake and aware, he paused. What woke him up? Strider on one side and Jael on the other were both still sleeping, and Gandalf was softly snoring in the chair next to the bed, Frodo still lying comfortably in his arms. The pale dawn light revealed only vague shapes, but nothing seemed amiss; the fire had burned low and the glowing coals cast eerie shadows on the floor and walls of the silent room, but again, nothing was visibly wrong.

But the last time he had woken up like this, Frodo had worsened... and he could no longer clearly hear the rattling gasps of his master's breaths. With growing dread, Sam peered into the dusky light, trying to make out Frodo's features from the shadows cast by Gandalf. While he doubted Gandalf would be sleeping if Frodo's condition had deteriorated further, Sam was still anxious and decided to check. Carefully crawling down to the foot of the bed, trying not to disturb either of the Big Folk still resting, he let himself down and padded around the end of the bed to investigate.

The wizard snored on, his head drooping forward, but his hold on Frodo never faltered. Frodo also looked to be sleeping, and Sam was relieved to note that Frodo was breathing, his chest moving ever so slightly up and down. Sam moved slightly, and the sparse firelight gleamed upon Frodo's face, casting it in a ruddy glow. Tentatively, Sam reached out and touched Frodo's face with two fingers, brushing a lock of sweat-dampened hair off of his forehead, and smiling at the absence of feverish heat.

"Be at peace, Samwise. He has turned the corner," Gandalf said, startling Sam nearly out of his breeches. He hadn't noticed when the wizard ceased snoring, and now he wondered if Gandalf had ever really been asleep. Gandalf laughed at his dumbfounded expression, then urged, "Go back to sleep. He won't wake for a while yet."

Sam was reluctant, even as he yawned, but decided that it was too early in the day to argue with a wizard and conceded defeat, climbing back up the end of the bed and crawling back between Strider and Jael once more.

~~~~

He could smell the strong scent of pipeweed standing out from the other aromas weaved into the fabric, and buried his face deeper in the folds of the familiar-smelling robe. The colour of that robe may have changed, but it was undeniably the same person he remembered enthusiastically embracing as a child in the care of his Uncle Bilbo. The first Big Person he had met... and one made legendary in Bilbo's stories long before he ever been able to meet him.

He could hear the sounds of others beginning to filter through his consciousness as he slowly surfaced from the pool of dreams in which he'd been submerged; one voice stood out, as he heard it rumble through the person who held him so gently. Other voices gradually became clearer: Sam, no doubt hovering nearby; Aragorn, and that lady... what was her name again? Jael... the name appeared from somewhere in his memory.

He could feel himself being shifted, moved, then placed onto the familiar softness of that huge bed, the comforting arms beginning to draw away... "Gandalf," he murmured softly in protest.

"Shh, Frodo. Just sleep. I'll be nearby," the wizard soothed.

He felt himself sliding back into welcoming darkness... he was so tired... Gandalf's hand eased through his damp curls, nudging him gently back into healing sleep.

~~~~

"Will he remember any of this?" Sam asked, taking the tray from Jael and holding it, careful not to spill any of the barely-eaten chicken broth and half-drunk tea as she tucked Frodo back in and wiped his mouth of a few small drips. The sun's mid-afternoon rays slanted in the window, spilling across the bed as they finished trying to feed Frodo for the third time, waking him up just enough that he could swallow easily and obey their commands.

Jael paused in arranging the blankets and answered, "Perhaps, but only vaguely. He hasn't even been fully awake yet, I don't think, not even when he spoke earlier." The ill hobbit had protested as Gandalf put him back in bed following a warm bath. Jael cast a look back at Sam. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious," he said as he shifted uncomfortably. "He'll be mighty confused about the time and such when he wakes, is all."

She chuckled. "That often happens when one is so ill."

"Aye," Sam answered somewhat reluctantly. "But it's like he keeps track in his head, and he gets mighty uptight if he misses some time."

Jael shook her head in amusement as she finished arranging the covers. "And was he upset about the time he missed while you both were recovering after your journey?"

"Well, no, but that couldn't be helped. *This* didn't have to happen…" he trailed off.

She rose from the bed and took the tray from him. "Aye, you are right about that."

"…It's like he knows 'e only has a bit o' time left to him and don't want to miss any," Sam finished his thought musingly.

~~~~

"... you should've seen their faces! They couldn't believe they had to go do the *laundry*! And that nasty barkeep has to do all of our laundry by himself!" Pippin was eagerly regaling Frodo with his version of Aragorn's judgements as he sat next to his cousin, Merry and Sam also on the bed nearby, though silent, as Pippin would barely let them get a word in edgewise.

"The *laundry*?! Good heavens. Aragorn, have you gone mad?" Frodo addressed the man as he strode through the door.

The King had entered with the intention of speaking to Gandalf, who stood near the fire, conversing with Jael. But the hobbit's voice brought him out of his reverie and he went to the side of the bed instead. "So good to see you awake Frodo," he smiled. "And no, I have not gone mad. I was merely taking advantage of the situation. Some men needing punishment and the laundries needing help... put them together and it makes for an easy solution. Besides, I remember a certain hobbit requesting a merciful sentence... They will only help until the ambassadors leave," he defended himself as he sat in the chair by the side of the bed, coming down to the eye level of the small folk.

Frodo looked doubtful. "But will they really be a help? I can easily see them causing trouble for the poor people who usually work down there."

"That is why I have assigned guards to ensure they behave themselves," Aragorn winked and sat back in his chair. "But now, how are you feeling? I confess I'm surprised to see you awake."

Frodo started to answer, but yawned instead. "Tired," he admitted ruefully as Aragorn chuckled.

"Then perhaps Pippin should finish his story another time," he suggested. "That is, if you are finished with your dinner," he added, motioning to the tray on Frodo's lap.

"Oh, yes, I'm quite done, thank you," Frodo said, looking down at the bowl of broth and cup of tea and turning a little green at the thought of more.

Merry took the hint and crawled off the bed, dragging Pippin with him, as Aragorn rose and took the tray from Frodo's lap. Sam helped Frodo lay back a bit and rearranged the blankets before climbing down himself to let his master have some peace and quiet. Frodo was quickly asleep again, and the other hobbits resumed their meal, still laid out on the short table by the window, momentarily forgotten in the enthusiasm over Frodo's awakening.

Jael and Gandalf ended their conversation as the King approached with Frodo's tray. "I am relieved to see him awake," Aragorn said as he set the tray on the table. "I had not expected him to wake until tomorrow."

"You should know to expect anything when it comes to our dear hobbits," Gandalf reminded him, amused.

Aragorn laughed, and said, "You are absolutely right, as usual. But perhaps I may be forgiven of my oversight, since I have other pressing matters at hand."

Gandalf sobered and asked, "Have the emissaries objected to your terms?"

"Not exactly. They are demanding . . . " his voice dropped out of hearing range as he and Gandalf left the room to discuss the newest obstacle.

Jael watched them go with some amusement, shaking her head as she took care of Frodo's leftovers. He hadn't eaten much, and had to be assisted, but she hoped he would soon be regaining his strength and appetite now that the fever had cleared. With rest and nourishment the matter in his lungs would clear as well, though he would remain weak and easily fatigued for some time. That much she knew.

~~~~

He was coaxed awake by the lilting of voices, one gentle and sweet sounding from just above his head, the other rougher but no less tender from a little higher and further away. He was soothed by the melodic rise and fall of the voices, hearing no distinct words. He drifted on their sound until he became aware the voices had ceased their hypnotic murmur. The absence of noise grated on his ears where the music of voices had earlier calmed him, and he pulled himself closer to consciousness.

Frodo became aware he was again resting in Jael's embrace, comfortably reclined against her as he slept. He sighed carefully as he came fully awake, noting the congestion still lingering in his chest and blinking as he surveyed the room. No one else was in his range of sight; he shifted slightly and debated whether he should go back to sleep.

Jael felt him move and looked down to see his eyes open. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she teased.

He yawned. "Is it morning?" he asked, feeling foolish for not even knowing the time of day.

"Aye, 'bout midmorning, if I don't miss my guess."

"Of what day?"

"Well, this will be the... fourth day I've been 'ere," Jael supplied after a moment's contemplation. "Are you hungry?"

"No, thank you. I'm a bit thirsty, though," Frodo admitted.

Jael reached to the table and presented before him a cool cup of tea. He took it with both hands, and she kept her hand close in case his grip faltered. The tepid drink felt good on his aching throat, and he recognized the taste of chamomile and honey. He willingly drained the mug, sighing in satisfaction when he finished. Jael returned the mug to the table with a chuckle.

"Where are the others?" Frodo asked.

"Sam was dragged off by the other two for a bath, and the King has returned to the council chamber for the day."

"Who was in here before? It sounded like a man..."

Jael smiled. "That was my husband."

"-Esli," Frodo supplied.

"Aye." The conversation paused then as Frodo yawned and watched a servant girl as she entered with a stack of clean linens, stowed them away in a chest at the end of the bed, then retreated out the door with the small pile of dirty items.

"Where are you from, anyway?" he asked sleepily. "Your accent is different..."

Jael smiled. This hobbit certainly had keen ears! "Well, I live now in Minas Tirith, but I spent my childhood in the Belfalas region, north of Dol Amroth in a small village on the Sea."

Frodo sat up a little straighter, now fully awake. "The Sea!" he gasped. He craned his neck to look up at her beseechingly. "Please... tell me about the Sea."

She wondered briefly about his fascination with the Sea, but dismissed it as the curiosity of a native of a land-locked country. "Well, the Sea is vast, so much larger than you can even imagine. Its mood depends upon the weather, sometimes a steely slate grey to reflect the brooding clouds above, and sometimes a sparkling mirror in shades of blue and green under the bright Sun. When the wrath of a storm is raging, the waves crash angrily upon the rocks, dashing themselves into a fine spray that mingles with the rain as it lashes down. But when it is calm, the Sun shining cheerfully over boundless turquoise depths, there is nothing more soothing than the whisper of the tide gently licking its way up the white sand and the cry of the sea-birds wheeling lazily overhead..." she recalled fondly the childhood days spent upon the beach, before the water that brought such joy in summer brought terror and death in the winter.

"Does it really smell salty?" Frodo asked, enthralled by her description of that strange and haunting body of water.

"Why, yes, but after a while you don't notice it anymore," she replied, confused. How did he know to ask about the salt smell? She garnered a partial answer in his next words.

"Just like in my dream..." he muttered thoughtfully. It was one of his most vivid recurring dreams, one of the very few that survived his journey unscathed. In his dream he did not actually see the Sea itself; he stood on a dark heath, hearing the sound of the Sea far-off, and a strange salt smell was in the air. Before him was a tall white tower, and a great desire came over him to climb the tower and see the Sea. But every time he would only start to approach the tower before the dream came to an abrupt end. His longing to go to the coast and finally see with his own eyes what teased the edges of his dreams only grew with time.

"Were there ships?"

"Yes, of course! My father had a small fishing boat, as did most of the families in town. The town was founded because of the abundance of fish in the area, and we traded with some other nearby communities for what we couldn't make ourselves. Sometimes we saw majestic ships from Dol Amroth, flying the banner of the Ship and the Silver Swan, bound on some mission to the Langstrand, north and west of us. But the biggest treat of all, and a very rare occurrence, was to see an Elven ship, sailing West."

"There were Elves?" he asked, surprised. "I thought they only set sail from the Grey Havens."

"Most do. Or they did. Now all of them must journey to Mithlond, for there are none left in Edhellond to build the ships."

"They all left?"

"Yes. There was still a small community of them when I was a small child, but they all decided to flee Middle-Earth shortly after the Corsair raids."

"Oh." Frodo sat thoughtfully considering this wealth of new information. "Do you ever wish you were still there?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh yes," Jael readily admitted. "There have been times where I would give anything to be back there, splashing in the surf and feeling the sand squish between my toes."

"So why don't you go?"

"It is a long way, especially for a woman to travel... I cannot afford it... and even if those problems were taken care of, I would have nothing to go back to..." she stopped when the hobbit yawned hugely. "And I will stop talking now so you can get some rest."

"All right, I suppose..." he murmured, already drifting off to sleep.

~~~~

Descending several progressively narrower staircases down into the cool stone bowels of the building, the servant girl made her habitual journey to the steamy laundry rooms where dirty was made clean, dry made wet and wet made dry. She walked confidently through several outer chambers, dodging the sweaty bodies of other servants and their loads of sopping linen and making her way through the clouds of steam billowing from the huge basins of water, laced with the stringent aroma of lye soap. The room was filled with chatter, the women eagerly exchanging gossip as they labored over the tubs; the girl signalled to several of her friends, motioning she would give them exclusive bits of news once rid of her load. After all, she had been in the same room as the important perian! That alone was enough to put her in higher esteem amongst her peers, for she had seen him with her very eyes, not just heard about him from the sister of a friend's cousin, and heard him talking with that woman who had so quickly and mysteriously gained the King's favor.

Reaching the very back of laundering area, she nodded at the soldiers standing guard at the narrow doorway to another small room, being permitted entrance with her burden of soiled items. These she dropped onto the heap just inside the door, a pile that never seemed to shrink but only grow, much to the consternation of the room's single occupant.

Joram spared the girl an icy glare before turning back to the mindless work before him. He was learning how this worked as he went along, being harshly dressed down by the imperious matron of the laundry for any and all mistakes. She rather enjoyed giving him tongue-lashings, or so it seemed to him, and always critiqued his work with an unforgiving eye, though he was quickly discovering the way things needed to be and providing her fewer opportunities for comment.

As the tireless cycle of washing became ingrained, it left a lot of time for thinking, something no doubt anticipated by the King in assigning this sentence. But the barkeep's thoughts were not filled with remorse or even regret for his hand in the events that brought him here. No, instead his mind was busily at work on plans and schemes . . . for revenge. He would make them pay, and pay dearly. The King, that insufferable Esli and his miserable wife, and, most of all, that impertinent halfling.

He paused in his work when an idea struck him and a smirk crept across his face as he carefully examined it from every angle. He needed a more exact plan, but that just might work . . .

Joram returned to the scrubbing with renewed diligence, his mind busy plotting the cruelest scheme of his life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joram finishes his plan and sets it into action.

Joram sank to his cot with a sigh. He hated the laundry and all the people in it, but there he had to work day in and day out until that little cretin recovered. A slow grin spread across his sweaty face as his thoughts naturally proceeded to his burgeoning plan. If he had his way, the insufferable runt *wouldn't* recover. Even if that doomed him to the dank stone pit he currently labored in, it would be well worth it. For he would gain satisfaction in bringing down the miserable halfling, the worthless Esli and his disagreeable wife, *and* dealing a sore blow to the upstart King.

He waited patiently as the guards did their rounds and eventually departed for the night, leaving one lone soldier on duty at the far end of the dark hall. All the while he fingered the packet in his pocket, at one time key to large profits, and now instrumental to his plan for vengeance. When the light of the guards' torches faded away and the echoes of their steps faded to silence, he crossed his cell to the cool stone wall. The cell on the other side of the wall housed his compatriots, whom he needed to address.

Cautiously he knocked twice, then listened for their answering rap. Once he knew he had their attention, he tugged on a brick. A long-forgotten prisoner had managed to work one stone loose, opening a means of communication between the two cells now confining the only captives of the dungeon.

He peered into the small space, being greeted by a pair of eyes staring back at him. "Wha'?" the other asked, surly. Though they had a way to converse, he didn't see any need to engage in small talk with the person who got him brought here.

"I have a plan," Joram hissed.

"To git us out?"

"Naw. We git out soon enough."

The eyes scowled at him. "Wha' then?"

"Revenge," Joram answered, trying to impart as much meaning as possible into the single word.

The eyes widened, then retreated a bit and the sound of low conversation could be discerned through the small space. "Wha' you plannin'?" The second pair of eyes returned and demanded.

Joram cast an anxious look towards the door. "Can't explain everythin'. I jus' need you fellas to make extra work for the good folks we workin' wi'," he said scornfully.

"An' how we s'pose ta do that?"

"I don' know... tip over a coupla tubs. Drop a load on the floor. Jus' do *somethin'* so's I have to go up ta the runt's room ta get the linens meself."

The eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?" he asked, a little too loudly.

"Shh, ye're gettin' too loud. An' I won' explain, in case you fellas git too talkative."

The eyes, growing harder to see in the dimming light of dusk, still looked skeptical.

"Don' worry. Any blame'll go on tha' hussy." He was prevented from further explanation by the sound of approaching footsteps. Joram hurriedly replaced the stone and retreated back to his cot, sitting down just as the torch's light stopped outside his door.

"Hoy! Quiet in there, or it'll be no rations tomorra for the lot o' ye!" the soldier reprimanded, pounding on the cell doors with the butt of his sword. When no sound met his threat, he turned, satisfied, and marched back to his post.

Joram rose and peered out the small barred opening in the heavy wood, watching the guard's retreat. He returned to the stone, pulling it out just long enough to whisper, "Remember, you jus' need to be difficult. Should'na be hard fer you lugs."

~~~~

As it turned out, there was no need for the pair to do anything out of the ordinary. The supply of clean linens had finally been exhausted, catching up with the shortage of hands to clean them. Every serving lad and lass able to be spared was sent to labor over the steamy tubs in hopes of meeting the surplus demand.

Joram worked diligently over the pile assigned solely to him, and early in the afternoon reached the bottom. Finishing the last items, he carried them out to the main room and put them in one of the baskets, soon to be picked up and hauled outdoors, where long lengths of line sagged under the ponderous weight of wet bedsheets and towels. The drying lines threaded their way down the hill behind the Tower and the seventh circle, their loads of clean items gently waving in the cool breezes sweeping over the mountains.

Joram took a moment to survey the room, and indeed, every available pair of hands was busy at work. There would be no one spared to fetch the laundry he needed. Smirking in satisfaction, he turned to address his guard. Even the soldiers were busier than before, and he now had only one guard dogging his steps, rather than the pair as previously. As respectfully as possible, he explained that he had run out of items and would need to go up to fetch the pile undoubtedly waiting for him.

The soldier gave him a doubtful look, but upon peering into the small workspace set aside for the barkeep and seeing no laundry, he assented and guided his charge to the stairway. He gave a moment's thought to fetching it himself, but that would leave the prisoner unguarded, and he did not think the King would be pleased if that occurred. So he followed the disreputable man up the stairs to the main floor, noticing only disinterestedly that the barkeep was rather fidgety.

The stairs seemed to stretch up to the heavens in Joram's mind, eager as he was to put his plan into action. Finally they reached the proper hallway, only to find it empty, their steps sounding like a marching army coming down the barren corridor. The door was open, and Joram entered, cautiously at first, but then more confidently when a scan of the room revealed only the dark-haired halfling asleep in the bed and the other short halfling drowsing next to him.

His guard waited by the door as the barkeep crossed the room, passing the quiescent fire in the fireplace, to the piled linens next to the small table. Joram's eyes eagerly lit upon the small piles of herbs arranged upon the table, and he eased the small packet out of his shirt sleeve. He'd spent part of the interminable trudge up here arranging things just so, to make the drop off as quick and easy as possible. Secreting the contraband in his palm, he carefully placed his hand upon the edge of the table as he bent down, presumably to pick up his load. After dumping the contents, he rose, keeping the now-empty paper packet in his one hand as he scooped up the pile.

Turning to leave, he 'accidentally' brushed the linen across the table top, scattering the contents and mixing his deposit with the dried herbs already there. Some even fell on the floor, which he did not bother to pick up. They could clean up after him later.

As Joram victoriously left the room, he suppressed the urge to snicker. It was only a matter of time now...

  
Sam yawned and blinked his eyes open in time to see the barkeep lift the heap that Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had taken such perverse pleasure in adding to, finding everything even the slightest bit dirty, including a nightshirt or two of Frodo's that had somehow ended up under the bed. He frowned at the man's carelessness, messing up Strider's supplies like that, but soon dismissed it from his mind. If he had an armful like that, he'd probably come nigh on dropping it, too.

Not ten minutes later, Jael and her husband returned from their repast. Strider had insisted that Jael should leave the sickroom and spend some time with her husband to take advantage of the last few days of his leave. Sam smiled as the couple entered the room, animatedly discussing something or other. They both looked so happy, Jael especially; it had been good for her to come and help with Frodo, to take her mind off her recent loss. And Sam was glad to see her in high spirits, for the sadness of her features when she first arrived did not suit her well.

After a few moments, she bid farewell to her husband and dropped into the chair standing ready at the side of the bed. "Where are Merry and Pippin?" she asked, having left four hobbits in the room, chatting animatedly in hobbit fashion, and returning to find a very quiet pair.

"They left to see what Legolas and Gimli are up to."

"Or to bother them, more likely," Jael added with a knowing smile. They never failed at amusing her, even when she *should* be annoyed with them, like when they woke Frodo, as they did this morning by sliding ice cubes down his nightshirt.

She'd tried to stop them, figuring out before they began what they were up to, but the combined effect of both Merry's and Pippin's sweetest pleading look soon broke her resolve. Though she did make them promise they would help him dry off afterward so he wouldn't catch a chill. She should have realized they would do the drying by practically sitting on him! At least they were kinder about it than they threatened, not actually sitting *on* him, but very close to it.

Frodo took it all in stride, having been their victim for years, and actually laughed with them. It warmed her heart to see him laugh, having thus far only seen him while dreadfully ill. But it continued to amaze her that he was about the same age as her parents would have been, were they still alive. He did not seem that old, though in unguarded moments, his eyes expressed the weariness and sorrow of having seen and experienced too much, even for his age. And sometimes she wondered if her eyes were as revealing as his, and what others saw if they were.

Jael came out of her reverie to find not just one but two pairs of eyes now regarding her curiously. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" she asked, slightly bewildered by their amused expressions.

"Not really," Frodo said innocently. "I merely speculated that you hadn't entirely returned from your luncheon just yet."

She laughed. "Apparently not," she admitted sheepishly. "I was just thinking..."

"Whatever you were thinking about had you looking rather serious," the hobbit teased.

"And shouldn't you still be sleeping?" Jael lightly countered.

"I have to make sure Sam stays in line," he replied as Sam shot him a dirty look.

"Are you hungry or anything? Since you're awake and all," she asked, shaking her head in amusement. She was rather surprised by his recovery so far; none she had ever known would feel well enough to banter so only two days after the fever broke. But the King and the wizard had hinted that these hobbits possessed extraordinary recuperative powers, so she supposed this is what they had meant.

Frodo grimaced and finally said, "I suppose I could take some tea... with lots of honey, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind," she assured him as she rose. Seeing the herbs in disarray on the table, her steps faltered. "Sam? Why-?" she asked, motioning toward the mess.

"Oh, that man was in 'ere to fetch the linen and 'e had a bit of trouble handling the load," he informed her as he slid off the bed to help set things to rights.

"Joram?" she asked with a frown as she began to sort what she recognized back into their neat piles.

"Aye." He helped her where her knowledge faltered, though there were some more exotic leaves he didn't recognize, either. By the time the kettle boiled, they had the table more or less back in order, with everything grouped roughly by shape. Jael chose the mixture for the tea as Sam fetched the kettle; a bit of chamomile, some mint, and an athelas leaf or two.

There were a few leaves that had looked like athelas, and though neither of them was absolutely sure, they were grouped in that pile anyway. After pouring the water into the pot, she realized she might have included one of the questionable leaves, but she hadn't been paying attention. 'Ah, well,' she thought. What did it matter anyway? There was nothing there that would hurt him, of that she was certain.

Finally the tea was ready, and she included a good measure of honey, as he had requested. He accepted the cup without complaint, though he looked to be doing it reluctantly, and Jael assumed it had something to do with a certain gardener watching him closely.

Frodo sipped it slowly, not wanting to burn his tongue, but quickly enough to satisfy Sam, who was glowering at him, displeased that he wasn't eating anything, but too polite to say so. He thought at first the tea tasted more bitter than usual, but then he got a mouthful of the honey and assumed simply that it hadn't been mixed very well.

It wasn't until a little while later that he realized something was truly wrong...


	13. Chapter 13

Frodo coughed roughly, having choked on the last bit of tea, then grimaced as he tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth. The empty tea mug had been taken from his hands and was now replaced, half full of water. He nodded his thanks, unable to form the words with his suddenly parched mouth. The cool liquid eased the dry cottony feeling in his mouth and throat at least temporarily, but he shivered with the chill of it even as he swallowed with some difficulty. It felt as though icy fingers were crawling across his skin, setting his hairs on end and freezing him to the bone.

Jael watched with some concern as Frodo seemed to pale several shades, his skin nearly matching the white of the sheets. He gave the cup to Sam as soon as he was finished, and collapsed back onto his pillows, pulling the blankets tightly over him. She was about to ask how he fared when he groaned, "Oh... I should *not* have had that tea."

"What is the matter?" she inquired, trying not to look bothered by this new turn in his symptoms.

At first he did not respond, instead squeezing his eyes shut and curling up on his side, in obvious discomfort. Sam and Jael exchanged a worried glance over his prone form; this, whatever it was, should not be happening. Sam reached to brush Frodo's hair off his forehead and tuck it behind his ear so he could see his master's face, as his back was now to him. Jael simultaneously clasped one of his small hands, just peeking out from under the blankets, and found it to be clammy and cold. She held it sandwiched between her warmer palms as she gently prodded, "What's wrong?"

"I-I don't know," he gasped. He bit back a cry before continuing. "It... hurts... and I'm cold... and I can't breathe." Ordinarily he wouldn't admit that much, but he knew as well as they did that this wasn't normal, that this shouldn't be happening... "I feel like throwing up," he added belatedly.

"Try not to," Jael urged even as she brought a basin within easy reach. "The tea should help, just give it some time." Frodo nodded slightly, his eyes still squeezed shut, as if by not opening them he could pretend the pain wrapping itself around his insides didn't really exist.

Jael eased her chair closer to the bed as she touched his cheek briefly before gently rubbing his back. Frodo felt alarmingly cool, an ironic occurrence after his fever a short time ago, and he was trembling, though whether from cold or something else she did not know. She met Sam's gaze again. "Go find the King," she mouthed silently, motioning with her free hand towards the door. Sam nodded and cast one more look at Frodo before crawling across the bed, dropping to the floor, and hurrying out the door.

~~~~

Sam dashed down the deserted corridor, heart pounding. What could be wrong with Mr. Frodo? Something niggled at the back of his mind about that tea, but he couldn't figure out what was bothering him about it.

When he reached the first intersection of hallways, his heart sank as he peered down first one, then the other. How was he supposed to find Strider in this maze when he didn't know where to look? And there was no one to ask, everyone either still at luncheon or in that council with Strider. He was about to give up hope of ever picking the right way to go when he heard familiar voices drifting down the corridor to the right. He began running in that direction, nearly weeping in delight when Merry, Pippin, Legolas, and Gimli came into view. Their good-natured banter ceased as he approached.

"What's the matter?" Merry cried when he saw Sam's desperate expression.

"Where's Strider?" Sam gasped in answer as he stopped and tried to catch his breath.

"In council," Merry replied automatically. "Sam, what is it? Is Frodo...?" he exchanged a horrified look with Pippin, and they both crowded closer to the panting gardener.

"'E's sick... don' know why... hafta get Strider..." he managed between gulping breaths.

"Come with me-I know where to find him!" Pippin said eagerly, turning and starting back the way they came without even making sure that Sam followed him. Once he realized this he stopped, only to have Sam run into him from behind. "Sorry," he muttered and was off again before the older hobbit could say a word.

Merry, Legolas, and Gimli watched them go, the heavy weight of worried silence settling over them. Once the pair turned a corner and was lost from view, they resumed their journey in the other direction. They had been intending to visit Frodo in the first place, but now their steps were more hurried, worried about what they would find.

~~~~

The trio entered the room to see Jael holding Frodo up as he retched into the basin in her lap. She didn't notice their entrance until Merry uttered an inarticulate cry and rushed over to the bed. Jael allowed him to embrace his cousin while she tried to induce Frodo to have a sip of water.

But Frodo refused. "No... can't," he wheezed, blinking back tears of pain and frustration. He looked so miserable, sagging against Merry, that she wanted to hold him close and reassure him that everything would be all right, but she had to admit she didn't know if it would be.

"All right then," she acquiesced, unwilling to force the matter, and helped Merry lay him back down. Frodo promptly curled up again, and Merry laid down behind him, holding him close and keeping him warmer, all the while murmuring reassurances.

Jael put the basin aside as she rose and was startled by the approach of Legolas. She had met him before; he and Gimli had visited a few times while Frodo was still so ill, but she had forgotten they came in with Merry.

"Would hot water bottles be of assistance?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you," she said gratefully. She watched as he returned to the fireplace, where Gimli was occupying himself by arranging every available pot and kettle over and around the fire to get warm.

Five minutes later saw them carrying over a half dozen pleasantly warm water bottles, which Jael strategically placed around the suffering hobbit. And still he trembled, still his hands and feet remained icy cold. She desperately hoped the King would arrive soon.

~~~~

"You don't understand! You *must* let us in! We have to speak to the King!" Pippin had taken it upon himself to act as spokesman in trying to get past the pair of guards standing at attention on either side of the door leading to the council chamber. Sam tried to use their distraction to sidle closer to the door handle, but the second guard gave him a disproving look and he shrank back in defeat.

The guards exchanged a dubious look. "The King *does* hold the small folk dear," the first admitted reluctantly. The second shrugged and nodded. "All right, we'll let you in," the first finally conceded and reached for the handle.

His motion, however, was interrupted when the door was swung open by none other than King Elessar himself. "By whom are we disturbed?" he demanded. The stern mask he wore for negotiations quickly melted into concern when he espied Samwise and Peregrin behind the guards. He stepped out into the hall, allowing the door to swing closed behind him, and sank to one knee. "Sam? Pippin? What's wrong?"

"Mr. Frodo's bad sick, all sudden-like," Sam burst out. "An' we don' know what ails 'im."

Aragorn frowned as his eyes searchingly roved Sam's face, finding concern, confusion, ....and fear. The frown deepened as he realized the situation *must* be dire for Sam to leave Frodo's side and seek him out in this manner. "Allow me a moment," he said finally, rising to re-enter the room.

The hobbits could not make out words, but they discerned Aragorn's authoritative voice, then a softer reply, and the door opened to reveal Aragorn once more. "Faramir will act in my stead. Let us make haste."

As they hurriedly walked back to the room -well, Aragorn strode while Sam and Pippin half-ran- Sam tried to explain all he could of what had happened and what may have brought on the fit.

~~~~

"Frodo, look at me." Aragorn's voice held a note of command, both to get the hobbit's attention and to encourage obedience of his words. Frodo slowly shifted his eyes from their distant stare to the face placed about a foot from his own. "Now, Frodo, I want you to tell me how you feel." He'd already listened to Jael and Sam tell of Frodo's complaints, and done what physical examination he could, but he knew from experience that having the sufferer list their symptoms often told more about their true physical and mental state than any poking or prodding could reveal.

Frodo sighed heavily and replied after a moment's thought, "Like a troll is sitting on me."

Aragorn wasn't sure if he should take this comment seriously, but Pippin commented first. "You'd be much flatter if there were, cousin!" he informed him cheerfully from his spot behind Merry, both curled against Frodo's back to keep him warmer. Frodo's mouth curved in a small smile, and for a moment Aragorn was relieved that he could still jest so.

But then Frodo began to cough as a chuckle became strangled in his throat, and all who could hear winced in sympathy. It hurt to listen to it, a gagging, choking sound as Frodo tried to draw in air through swollen, irritated passageways that would not permit it. Within seconds all who could aid him were in motion, drawing him to sit upright, rubbing his back, bringing a steamy kettle near in hopes the moisture would ease his breathing.

For a few tense moments no one was sure if Frodo could breathe or was getting enough air; he reassured them with a stifled gasp before settling down to the uneven wheezing from before as he collapsed against whoever was holding him. This time it was Aragorn, and he looked down anxiously as the curly head against his chest began to list sideways. "Frodo, you must stay awake until we know what's wrong."

"But... I feel so... weak... and tired. ...Why am I so tired, Aragorn?" he asked almost dreamily, staring again into space.

"I don't know, Frodo. And until we do, you can't give in. Understand?" He laid the hobbit back against his pillows to see Frodo struggling to stay focused on his face. His hand tenderly cupped the side of Frodo's face as he whispered, "Hold on, Frodo. Hold on."

With a sigh the hobbit closed his eyes and was insensate to the world, though not yet unreachable. Mirroring the sigh, Aragorn slid his hand down to check his pulse... there, but staggering and weak, like a wounded man's limp before he falls to the ground that final time.

His mind was still busily working, going through his knowledge for what could be causing this and how to counteract it. It had a sedating effect, so something stimulating was necessary... what could he give to Frodo without knowing the cause? Something that wouldn't interact...

"Merry, Pippin," he said suddenly. "Go get some of that brandy served at the last banquet."

The hobbits gave him strange looks from where they tried to peer over his shoulders, concerned about Frodo's state. "What-" began Pippin, but the King cut him off.

"Just go and get it. It should help counter Frodo's symptoms." They shrugged, still confused, and left in search of the leftover brandy.

"Sam, you said he had some tea before this came on?" Aragorn inquired, returning to his quest for the cause.

"Yes, sir," he stepped closer, also peering anxiously at Frodo as Aragorn tucked him back in with the hot water bottles and pile of quilts.

"What about before that? Did he eat anything?"

"Nay. Refused food, he did, and didn't look none too happy 'bout takin' tea, neither."

Aragorn sat back with a frown creasing his forehead, studying Frodo for any clues he may be neglecting. He mustn’t miss the obvious. "All right, then. What kind of tea was it?"

Sam had to think a moment. "I don't rightly know. Jael made it, an' wi' lots o' honey, as he asked."

Jael had been silent all through the exchange, stepping back and out of the way once the King arrived, recognizing her meager skills were of no more use. Now she stood, wringing her hands anxiously, afraid she may have done something to unwittingly cause this and harm the poor soul who'd been through so much already. She stepped forward. "Aye, my lord. I made the tea, with chamomile and mint. And a couple leaves of that athelas, for good measure."

Aragorn looked over at her, startled. He'd half forgotten anyone else was still in the room, so intent was he on the vexing riddle before him. "That certainly wouldn't have done this," he mused, then came to a decision on his immediate course of action. He rose from the bed, intending to prepare some athelas for Frodo to inhale, his breathing still significantly impeded by the pneumonia and now this new malady; hopefully it would give him a bit more time to investigate. But the sight on the table gave him pause. The contents had been drastically rearranged. "Sam, what happened?" he asked, gesturing at the table.

"Oh, that man accidentally dragged the linens o'er the table," he replied moving to stand closer to Aragorn as the King surveyed the damage. "We tried to put everythin' back in order."

And indeed, most everything was placed back in the correct piles. But then Aragorn spotted something suspicious. There was another type of leaf in with the athelas. Very similar, yes, but his trained eye could discern a number of small differences.

He immediately set to separating the two, and quickly had the imposters weeded out. Aragorn peered at one of the four leaves he'd found, and his heart sank as he realized he knew what it was. Was it not enough for Frodo to be terribly ill, that he must be poisoned as well? All of the symptoms made perfect sense now, and he knew even before he looked that he would find some of that leaf amongst those used for the tea. And what of she who made that tea? Was she responsible for this? He couldn't be sure, so he had to proceed with caution...

"Lady Jael, you said Frodo threw up. How many times?" he asked with forced neutrality as he prepared the mixture for the steam, behaving as if nothing were amiss.

"Twice, my lord." She still hadn't moved from where she stood, and didn't seem to note anything out of the ordinary in his manner.

"How much came up?" Now he carried the basin and a boiling kettle to the bedside.

"It is all still in the basin on the table; I think he brought up all of the tea he drank."

Aragorn paused in pouring the water long enough to give a small sigh of relief. If none of the poison remained in his system, it was likely the symptoms would pass off given some time. They would merely need to keep Frodo comfortable until then.

"Legolas, Gimli, would you see if you can find a few more hot water bottles?" he requested, both for Frodo's comfort and desiring to have them out of earshot for what he needed to do next. He didn't want to embarrass her any more than absolutely necessary.

Once the elf and dwarf had left, he returned the empty kettle to the hearth and turned to face Jael and Sam. He paused; there was no good way to say this, so it would be better to say it flat out. "Frodo has been poisoned," he said stiffly, watching as both hobbit and woman paled. "I have found leaves of an entirely different nature mixed with the athelas. Someone has planted them there, undoubtedly with the intent of harming Frodo." And now for the difficult part... "Forgive me, Lady Jael, but I must ask that you return to your home until this matter is resolved."

Jael's senses were reeling as the full implication of the King's words sank into her consciousness. She really *had* caused this, and now she was being sent away. "Of course, my lord," she murmured through numb lips before walking slowly towards the door. Her movements were mechanical, her mind barely able to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

When she finally gave thought to directing her stumbling feet, she was halfway home and surrounded by the late afternoon crowd of those going to market. It seemed a lifetime before she reached her modest home along a lonely side street. Her neighbor's houses were lit from within, the cheerful sounds of children playing and supper being prepared ringing discordantly in her ears.

Jael shuffled inside her own dark home, grateful that no one had seen her return and that her husband had not yet returned from visiting friends in the second circle. There was no way she could have explained to him what she had done, albeit inadvertently, and that she had been dismissed. Here was yet another thing to add to her list of failures.

She sank to the floor and wept bitterly.


	14. Chapter 14

"Why'd you do that?" Sam demanded once he found his voice. For long moments he'd stood, stunned speechless and torn between going after Jael and staying with Frodo. Finally he decided that taking Strider to task would accomplish the most, so now he stood, arms crossed defiantly as he glared at the King.

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his forehead, listening closely for any sign Frodo was still having trouble breathing before replying. "For her sake and Frodo's, it is best if she is safely out of the way while I figure this out. Until we know for certain who did this, everyone will be looked on with suspicion. Even you would be, if I didn't know better than to think you'd ever try to harm Frodo."

He approached the bed and laid a hand on the gardener's shoulder as he crouched to look him straight in the eye. "Sam, I hope Jael did not do this. And if she did not, I think the person who did intended her to take the blame, but I need proof. Until I have that proof, it is best for her to remain safe at home. It would grieve me deeply if she did conceive this plot. Just as it would pain me greatly to see her put to death."

Sam's eyes widened, and he would have responded but for the return of Merry and Pippin, bearing two flagons of brandy.

The King stood and addressed them. "You rascals certainly took long enough!" he teased as he relieved them of the bottles.

"The wine master wasn't inclined to give these 'rascals' the brandy, until Pip pulled rank on him as a soldier of Gondor and insisted the King required it," Merry haughtily informed him.

Aragorn eyed the bottles with some amusement. "I see you sampled the goods, as well."

"Of course!" Pippin replied in an injured tone. "We had to make sure it was acceptable. And make sure it was safe for Cousin Frodo," he added.

Sam stiffened. "That's not funny," he said with a warning glance at the other two.

Merry caught the edge in his tone. "What are you saying?" he asked sharply.

It was Aragorn who answered the query. "He's saying that Frodo was poisoned, Merry. Some leaves of a particularly nasty plant were placed amongst the herbs, and a few made it into the tea he drank."

"Will he be all right?" Merry asked anxiously, glancing at his sleeping cousin on the bed.

"I believe so. It seems he's thrown up all of the tea, so all that remains is to wait until the effects wear off. Which is where the brandy comes in," he informed them, gesturing with one of the bottles.

"Brandy is one of the folk remedies for poisoning from this plant, though when I sent you for it, I merely desired it for its stimulating effect. In any case, it should prove most useful." So saying, he proceeded to the bedside, and placed the flagons on the table. He carefully removed the cooling hot water bottles from around Frodo, making sure to tuck the quilts back around him afterward and giving the bottles to the other three hobbits to be refilled.

He gently lifted Frodo partially upright, and sat behind him in support. The limp hobbit twitched and tried to move slightly, which relieved Aragorn-no movement would have worried him-though he did not have much control over his own limbs. But the change in position upset the balance he'd achieved before, and even mostly unconscious he moaned a little in warning before he retched.

Aragorn was not quite fast enough with the basin once he realized what was imminent, but the amount that came forth was not enough to make much of a mess. Frodo shuddered with the force of his heaves, though the effort didn't produce much, and to clean up Aragorn had only to fold up the top quilt and remove it, replacing it with one passed to him by Sam.

The King sat back against the headboard, settling Frodo against him again before reaching to pour a small amount of brandy into an empty mug. Corking the flagon, he took an appreciative sniff of the mug and sipped a bit of its contents. Then he turned his attention to giving Frodo small amounts and getting him to swallow it with a gentle hand rubbing his throat in encouragement.

The other three hobbits climbed onto the bed to watch apprehensively, and finally Merry asked, "So what plant was it?"

"One often used by farmers and herders to kill wolves, hence its name 'wolfsbane.' Fortunately for Frodo, the root is the most potent part, and not the leaves, though all parts of the plant are quite poisonous."

"Could he have died?" asked Pippin, wide-eyed.

Aragorn considered for a moment. "Yes, he could have."

"But you said he would be all right," Merry objected.

"He should be," Aragorn affirmed. "While this plant is very deadly, and in his current state, it should not have taken much of it to kill him, whomever planned it neglected to account for a few things. Frodo could not keep it down long, which gave it little time to work. The effect of the athelas I have been using in treating his illness cannot be discounted, and the spread of the poison was much slower than it could have been, since Frodo was not moving much."

"So being sick may have saved him?" Merry asked in disbelief.

The corners of Aragorn's mouth quirked into a small smile as he responded, "It just may have."

As if in response to their conversation about him, Frodo stirred a bit and yawned. Aragorn checked the hobbit's heartbeat: stronger than it had been, and he felt a bit closer to normal in temperature as well. Frodo tried to fight him a bit, struggling in his grasp as he tried to give him another sip of brandy.

"Shh, Frodo. You're all right. And you'll feel better if you don't try to move," Aragorn reassured him.

Frodo's brow furrowed, but he did not open his eyes. "Aragorn? But I thought..." he trailed off weakly. After a moment he finished a bit more strongly, "Never mind what I thought. Have you figured out what's wrong with me yet?"

The Man chuckled. "Yes. And we're trying to remedy it. Here, drink," he said, putting the cup to the hobbit's lips again.

His eyebrows quirked as he tasted the liquid and asked after he swallowed, "Why are you giving me brandy?!"

Aragorn laughed outright. "It will counteract your symptoms. How do you feel?"

"Still cold... but not quite as sick to my stomach," he admitted after a moment.

"Good. And your breathing?"

"Compared to before, or to normal?" he returned wryly.

"Ah, I believe compared to before would be best," Aragorn answered with mock seriousness.

"Better than before," Frodo affirmed.

In the course of the conversation, Frodo had finished the bit of brandy, so Aragorn reached over to the table for more. On a whim, he scooped a bit of the cooling athelas water from the basin placed there to ease Frodo's breathing, then added the brandy. "Here, drink some more, then we'll let you sleep again, and tuck you in with some hot water bottles," he encouraged him.

Frodo nodded tiredly. "That would be nice..." he said, allowing Aragorn to give him more of the liquid. The other three hobbits climbed down from the bed and retrieved the water bottles as the King carefully withdrew from behind Frodo and arranged the pillows comfortably behind him. Frodo was asleep again even before he finished tucking water bottles around him.

Merry and Pippin crawled back up on the bed and curled themselves next to their cousin as before, but Sam remained next to the bed, looking troubled. "Strider, if that plant is so bad, why would anyone have it?"

Aragorn settled himself into Jael's usual chair as he replied. "That is an excellent question. In small amounts, this plant can be used for pain relief and a number of other complaints. In slightly larger doses, it tends to have a pleasurable effect on those who are healthy, much like the effects of too much ale but without the hangover afterward. I suspect it was intended for illegal sale to those desiring that effect, and only later did the person think of using it for this purpose."

"Men would do that?" Sam questioned.

"Do what?"

"Buy an 'erb or whatnot without bein' sick?" he clarified.

Aragorn sighed. "Sadly, yes. And those who acquire it without need make it more scarce for those who have a legitimate reason to need it."

"That's just not right," Sam shook his head in censure.

"No, it's not. But I'm afraid many do things that aren't right, because they stand to gain."

"Will you fix it?" Sam looked hopeful.

"Pardon?"

"Will you make them stop doing that?"

Aragorn smiled slightly as he put a hand to his chest and bowed his head briefly. "I will do my best."

"Good." With a nod, Sam climbed up on to the bed as well, squeezing into the space between Frodo and the edge of the bed. "'Tain't right that such things should happen, now that there's a King an' all."

~~~~

". . . think . . . lookin' better . . . hand . . . warmer . . . enough?"

". . . regaining . . . color . . . heartbeat stronger . . ."

The voices trickled into his ears, tingling pleasantly through his mind though most went by not understood. Gradually he became aware of presences on either side of him, encouraging him every so often to take a sip of something that should probably be familiar if he weren't in such a haze. The voices died down and he began to get curious what they were up to. Silences usually led to something unpleasant, as if they were trying to spring it on him without him realizing what was happening until it was too late. He had no idea how he knew this, but accepted it without question, as he was unlikely to find proof either way with his eyes closed.

Frodo blinked blearily, overwhelmed even by the dim light of evening after the darkness of unawareness. Faces swam in his vision, crowding close with looks of mingled concern and relief, and he shut his eyes quickly, hoping the motion of the room would stop. One of the voices spoke, and he opened his eyes again cautiously to find that the faces had retreated a bit and ceased moving.

He sighed in relief, and moved a hand to rub some of the sleep from his eyes. Trouble is, he somehow completely missed his intended target and his hand landed squarely on his nose. He heard muffled snorts from both sides but dismissed them as he tried to figure out what went wrong. His eyes attempted to focus on the offending limb, still perched defiantly where he didn't want it, and this action produced outright laughter from the presences at his side.

A different hand appeared and moved his from his nose and back to his side where it had started. "How are you feeling, Frodo?" the voice attached to the hand asked.

It took him a moment to answer. "I' feelin' all righ' ..." he slurred, then hiccupped a little.

Merry and Pippin were roaring with laughter, and Sam shot Aragorn a displeased look. "I *told* you it was more'n enough. We should let you deal with 'im when he wakes up with a hangover. He's none too pleasant then, if you follow me."

He gave the King no time to answer before he was crawling closer to Frodo from his vantage point near the end of the bed. Patting his arm comfortingly as he pulled the blankets up and pushed a gasping Pippin out of the way, Sam assured him, "It's all right, Mr. Frodo. Just go back to sleep and you'll feel better for it."

The tone of this voice was soothing, so he allowed his eyes to drift closed again as the familiar lilt of the words lulled him into slumber.

~~~~

Esli cheerfully strolled home a few hours past sundown. He had a very pleasant day, seeing several friends he hadn't talked to in weeks, with the fighting and all. Once the war was over, they had gone to escort their families home, their wives and children among those evacuated before the city fell under siege. Jael would have been among them, had she not taken ill.

At the very least, he knew Jael would be pleased to learn her friends had returned, especially now that she was in better spirits. He'd intended to go tell her before returning home for the night, but the hour grew later than he'd realized while sharing a few good draughts in the tavern, learning more of the goings-on outside the walls of the city.

Esli opened the door to be greeted by a dark house, and realized anew that he keenly missed Jael's presence. As joyful as he was that she was able to assist the King, and in so doing bring her spirits back to life, a part of him wished she were home to greet him with her characteristic warmth and light.

With these thoughts of his wife at the front of his mind, he stepped into the dim house and moved to close the door behind him. The light of a lamp across the road shone in as he did so, and he realized someone was seated in the sole armchair of their humble sitting room. He shut the door as he said tentatively, "Jael?" No answer. He anxiously crossed the room to find her huddled on the chair, staring vacantly into the shadowed fireplace.

He crouched before her and cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs finding wet trails of tears and wiping them away. "What's the matter, dearest?"

"I think I've killed him," she sobbed.

"What d'you mean?"

"There... there was something bad in with the herbs and I . . . and I put some in his tea," she managed hesitatingly. "...and so I've been-been sent home until the King 'looks into the matter'."

"Jael, it's not yer fault," he soothed, holding her close as she cried. "The King won' truly think you intended to 'arm him." But she remained inconsolable for many minutes. Then he asked gently, "Why d'you think you killed him?"

"He-he got s-so sick s-so quickly and I didn't know what to do... and he's still s-so weak from before..." She swallowed hard before finishing miserably, "There's no way he could survive it."

"The hands of the King are the hands of a healer," Esli murmured thoughtfully. If Jael heard him, she gave no sign. Finally, when her tears seemed to have exhausted themselves, he said softly, "I will send word if I can find anything out on the morrow." She sniffed and nodded, and he continued encouragingly, "I think you should get some rest. The King will send for your return at any time, I'd warrant."

Jael gave him a small smile as she pulled away to rise, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, just as before, he noted with sadness.

~~~~

Frodo blinked, then squinted against the sunlight streaming into the room. "Unh," he groaned in protest as he rolled over to face away from the light. "Why does it feel like I'm hung over?" he complained to no one in particular.

"Because you are," replied a voice with more amusement than seemed necessary in Frodo's humble opinion.

"And why is that?" he questioned idly.

"Remember the brandy? You had quite a bit of it."

Frodo thought for a moment, then abandoned the attempt when he realized his brain was of no more use than a wad of cotton. "Why would I do that?"

"Well, in all fairness, you didn't. We were feeding it to you. But it was to make you feel better, I promise."

"If this is better, what was before?" Frodo grumbled half-heartedly.

"Trust me, you prefer this to the alternative."

"All right, all right," Frodo waved his arm in an attempt to get The Voice to stop. It was making his headache worse.

The Voice chuckled. "You should go back to sleep. You're cranky when you're hung over."

"I think I will..." Frodo murmured, already halfway there.

~~~~

Joram was most pleased by the gossip he overheard sweeping through the laundry room as the servants arrived and began the day's work. The stories differed, of course, depending on the teller and which portion of the tale they'd heard. Over the course of several hours, the task of information gathering complicated by his isolation in the small room off the main, he'd pieced together a rough approximation of how things went.

Two of the runts interrupted the King in negotiations yesterday, and the King left with them, was the word from one girl whose lover was soldier of the King's Guard. A steward for some of the ambassadors confided that his masters were disgruntled by the King's abandonment yesterday and his subsequent cancellation of all councils today. A cleaning maid saw 'that woman' flee the palace, seemingly in disgrace, and another reported the entire corridor to the halflings' room was heavily guarded and no one allowed past without the King's personal leave.

There was no word on a certain runt or how he fared, but Joram had to assume the King would guard that information closely, particularly if he'd succeeded. If the runt's death was known, it would likely the ambassadors into a panic, thinking an assassin was loose in the city. They would flee, abandoning all treaties and dooming the King's reign before it had really even begun.

Not only was he achieving his personal vengeance, by striking one so dear to the King, he had made a statement that could not be ignored.

~~~~

It was noon before Frodo awoke again, and that was with help. He was pulled-no, *dragged*-to consciousness by cheerful voices telling him he needed to wake and eat. He disagreed, but they were not to be ignored, so eventually he did just that, only so they would leave him alone. Merry and Pippin had done the waking, but Sam was in charge of the feeding, with Aragorn keeping a close eye on the amount consumed.

Several spoonfuls into the chicken broth, Frodo finally asked something that had been bothering him. "Where's Jael?" A silence fell over the room and Sam's grip on the spoon faltered, and it clattered into the bowl with a startling clink. He refused to meet Frodo's suspicious gaze, so Frodo turned his attention to the King. "Tell me, Aragorn," he demanded.

"I sent her home, Frodo," he admitted, meeting the hobbit's narrowed eyes levelly.

"Why?!" he asked incredulously.

"Remember how you were feeling last night?"

"Of course," he replied off-handedly.

"It was due to a very dangerous plant, given in that tea you drank. You were poisoned, Frodo. Someone tried to kill you."

"You cannot believe she is responsible!" he spluttered, taken aback by the revelation. "She would never want to hurt anyone!"

"I do not know for sure," the King admitted. "I am only being cautious until the truth can be found out. I hope you will forgive me for waiting to begin my investigation until I was convinced you would indeed recover," he finished ruefully.

"But why would you send her away?! Jael trying to kill me is as unlikely as Sam trying to kill me! I'm sure she would not have given me that tea if she knew what it contained. Oh, she must be devastated..." he trailed off with a horrified look. Then he turned to Aragorn, resolute. "Send for her. Bring her back."

"I am sorry, Frodo, but I cannot do that. She is at the moment the only possible culprit, and I cannot rule her out until suspicions fall on another. Once the matter is settled she may return." He held up a hand to halt the stream of objections sure to follow. "My decision is final."

"If you can seriously entertain the notion of Jael doing something like this to me, I have been wrong about your character all along." His voice dropped dangerously low and his eyes flashed angrily. Sam recognized the look, one of barely contained rage and fury, and he stayed safely out of the way, not certain what form his master's anger would take.

Aragorn frowned at Frodo's statement but said nothing, maintaining his calm demeanor even as the doubts multiplied in his head, along with concern for Frodo's health. He was still much too close to being seriously ill to exert himself so, but he knew the hobbit was a force to be reckoned with once he'd made up his mind on a matter.

"Fine," Frodo stated menacingly, crossing his arms defiantly in emphasis. "If you refuse to bring back the poor woman you have so wrongfully accused, you leave me no choice. Until you admit your error, I will refuse to let you tend me. I will take none of your medicines and not eat or drink anything you had a part in making," he resolved, glaring at the man as if daring him to back down.

Which he wasn't about to do. "Frodo, you are being extremely foolish," he replied, rising from the chair. "But if that is your decision, I shall respect it. My mind remains unchanged." He turned and strode from the room.

The other three hobbits stared at Frodo, astonished. Very rarely had any of them seen him become that angry, and none had anticipated this response! Demand Jael's return? Certainly. Reject Strider's care of him? Never.

They remained speechless for many minutes, afraid of bringing that wrath upon their own heads. Frodo turned his head to watch Aragorn depart, and now he turned back, closed his eyes, and sighed. Merry took that moment to look closely at his cousin and didn't like what he saw. Frodo had gone completely pale again, and his features sheened with perspiration as he tried to catch his breath from his outburst. He moved up Frodo's side to sit opposite Sam, and reached for one of the many clothes piled and shoved in any open space on the table. Patting his cousin's face dry, he ventured, "Frodo-"

"Don't," Frodo interrupted harshly. "I know what you're going to say, and I don't want to hear it."

Merry exchanged a look with Sam, who nodded slightly. He continued in spite of Frodo's objection. "You know what I'm going to say? Then you shouldn't mind if I go ahead and say it. We agree with you about Jael. She wouldn't have done it."

Frodo opened his eyes and glanced at Merry, slightly surprised. He'd not quite expected that from him. What he'd been expecting came next.

"But Aragorn on the other hand... what were you thinking?! You need him, Frodo. You’re not better yet."

Frodo sighed. "I know," he admitted. "I know... but he had no right to send her away for something she wouldn't do."

"He's trying to protect you and her," Merry argued.

Sam nodded in agreement. "Strider said whoever did this is trying to make her take the blame, so it's safer for her to be at 'ome."

"Whatever the case, I want her to know I don't blame her for what happened. Merry, Pippin, would you go find her and at least tell her that? Maybe... bring her back, to prove to Aragorn she didn't mean any harm..." he gave them a pleading look, and they reluctantly agreed to search the woman out.

~~~~

A half hour later, Aragorn peered into the room to find Sam puttering about and cleaning up, Frodo sleeping, and Merry and Pippin nowhere to be seen. "I expect Frodo is still angry with me," he commented as he entered.

"Aye. 'E's mighty irked that you could think her capable of such a thing. Sent Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin to find her, he did, to tell 'er he's all right and doesn't 'old it against her," Sam informed him as he finished emptying old kettles and pots out the window and went to pile up the linens.

"How thoughtful of him," the King murmured as he gazed thoughtfully at Frodo as he slept. He was interrupted in his examination by a startled gasp behind him; he turned to find Sam standing motionless, the linens he'd been carrying around his feet.

"You're nowt but a ninnyhammer, Sam Gamgee!" the gardener was scolding himself. "The Gaffer said it often enough. 'E's right, an' no mistake!"

"Sam?" Aragorn questioned uncertainly, not sure what he was going on about.

Sam spun around and said, "Th' barkeep! That nasty barkeep musta done it! I saw 'im drag the linens 'cross the table, messin' everythin' up. He coulda left those leaves!"

Now Aragorn understood him perfectly. "Joram..." he said thoughtfully. "It *is* certainly possible, and he is definitely the type of scoundrel to sell that plant to others... Sam, you must not tell anyone this," he instructed. "But I think you have just saved Jael." He smiled at the hobbit before turning on his heel and quickly exiting the room.


	15. Deadly Decision

One, two, three, four. Turn. One, two, three, four. Turn. One . . . Aragorn restlessly paced his small study as he debated what to do. So many thoughts were vying for his attention, so many ideas clamoring to be heard. How could he possibly prove Joram was behind Frodo's poisoning? His steps kept time with his racing mind, and Gandalf watched him with amusement. The wizard sat by the fire, safely out of the way of the prowling King, as he smoked his pipe and waited for Aragorn to give voice to his preoccupation.

The pacing continued for the better part of half an hour until Elessar abruptly stopped, turned on his heel, and strode from the room. 'He must have come to a decision,' Gandalf mused wryly. Several minutes later the King returned and dropped into the chair opposite Gandalf with a sigh. "I shall host dinner tonight for the ambassadors," he explained briefly. "I believe it is time the attempt on Frodo's life is made known."

Gandalf hemmed thoughtfully, then inquired, "And what of the questions about the culprit? They will no doubt ask his whereabouts and fate."

"His identity is known to me, and I have only to bring him into custody," Aragorn replied dismissively. "And his fate? Even death is too good for him in light of his offenses."

The wizard cast an appraising glance at the man across from him to see the King frowning fiercely into the small fire. "You mean to execute him, then?"

Aragorn sighed and closed his eyes wearily as he seemed to slouch further into the padding of the chair. "It is appropriate for the severity of his crimes."

"And what of the proof you require?" Gandalf prodded gently.

The man cast him a grim smile. "That is the purpose of this evening's meal. I will trust to rumor the information I want Joram to know, and thus trap him." After a moment's silence, he elaborated, "When he hears his plan was unsuccessful, he will undoubtedly try again. But this time, I will be at hand."

~~~~

As he trudged home, dejected, Esli wished he had even the smallest piece of news with which to soothe his wife. But he had been unable to discover anything new about the halfling Frodo, his inquiries about his health met only with blank stares or old information regarding his earlier illness. He would have gone to investigate himself, but the corridor was guarded heavily and he lacked the permission to proceed. And none of the halfling's friends had been seen since the day previous, undoubtedly closeted in the sequestered room. Even that wizard who always seemed to appear when least expected was absent, and the lack of information disturbed Esli greatly. The only situation he could think of that required such secrecy was if Frodo had actually died. The death of such a renowned personage would cause a great stir, and as such would only be revealed when the King was ready to handle the uproar.

Such thoughts did not sit well, especially when he realized what that outcome would do to Jael. He was so busy concocting explanations for his return home that he almost missed seeing two short, curly heads through a break in the crowds. Esli quickened his pace, trying to catch up to the small folk before they were swept off in the mass of people. He deeply hoped they were who he thought they were: two of the halflings, the two he had not dealt with in person before. Drawing closer, he called out and they turned as one, relief evident in their faces when they recognized him.

Merry and Pippin had set out without any clear idea of where to find Lady Jael, knowing only that she and her husband reside in a small house on the third level of the city. They had been wandering the level for hours, asking merchants and passers-by for directions, but none knew of whom they spoke, much less where they lived! The two tired and hungry hobbits were about to turn back and admit defeat when a voice hailed them and Esli appeared.

"How fares Frodo?" the Man asked without preamble.

Pippin shrugged. "He'll be all right, or so Strider says."

"Wonderful! Jael has been dreadfully worried."

Merry nodded. "Frodo sent us to tell her he's all right," he provided. "But none of us know where you live."

"Come, I will show you the way. It's not far."

The three found Jael huddled again in the threadbare chair, staring vacantly into the empty fireplace, her eyes red from weeping. She ignored them, or at least gave no indication she was aware of their presence.

"Lady Jael," Merry said softly, gently touching her arm. "Frodo is asking about you. He wants you back. He knows you wouldn't harm him."

Jael's breath caught, but she said nothing. Merry continued, "In fact, he's quite angry with Ar- the King for sending you away like that."

A chuckle broke free as she imagined the petulant hobbit scolding the King. "He truly wants me to come back?" she asked, drying her eyes.

Both Merry and Pippin nodded.

"But what of the King? I could not return without his leave."

"He wants you to stay safe at home until he finds the one responsible," Merry admitted softly after a long pause.

"Then I cannot return," she said sadly. "At least, not yet. Eventually I must, for I abandoned my things when I left."

In the end it was decided Merry and Pippin would bear a message back to Frodo on her behalf, and Jael would remain home until the King's wrath turned upon a new victim and he summoned her.

~~~~

"...she would come, but does not desire to anger the King further. She will wait until the King himself sends for her."

Frodo sighed wearily. "I see..." he murmured. "I should have expected such. She does not take lightly the commands of those above her."

"Does that mean you'll let Aragorn come back?" asked Pippin hopefully.

Frodo scowled at him. "No!" The force of his exclamation also ripped a cough from his throat. While it was true that the coughing had been worse before, its existence in the first place and its interference now irked him. He just wanted it to go away, already!

His irritation with life in general was not helped by the arrival of a certain former Ranger. "How are you feeling?" the man asked cheerfully. Frodo let his glare speak for him before he rolled over with his back to Aragorn as the King seated himself in the chair still beside the bed. Aragorn ignored his rejection and stated, "Several matters have been decided, and since they chiefly concern the four of you, I wanted to inform you. First, I do not seriously believe Jael had anything to do with what happened, so I plan to catch the real culprit by catching him in the act. I will speak to each of you individually regarding your roles in this trap, which shall hopefully be sprung tomorrow. Once that is accomplished, we plan to move you to another place of residence."

"Why?" demanded Merry.

"It is painfully evident that you are not safe here. To err on the side of caution in such a case is the prudent choice."

"And what of Jael?" asked Frodo. He'd capitulated and rolled onto his back once Aragorn admitted he didn't suspect Jael, and now he was concerned over the lady's fate.

"I will allow her to return if you so wish and if her assistance is still required. But only once I have captured the one behind this treachery."

"Where will we be goin'?" Sam asked pragmatically. He knew as well as anyone that the city was full nigh to bursting, and there would be few places where four hobbits could be housed safely.

"Not very far. Gandalf has a house here that is available, and as secure as could be asked. There you will be staying until the time comes for all of you to return home."

"When will we be going home?" asked Pippin hopefully. While it was true he was enjoying himself in Minas Tirith, he still longed for home, for his own bed, and to go back to where he could act immature and irresponsible and it would be considered endearing.

"Not yet," was the King's cryptic reply. "Now, if the three of you would excuse us, I need to speak with Frodo about what will come to pass on the morrow."

~~~~

By the time he'd satisfied the hobbits' curiosity, the time had come to prepare himself for the evening meal and what he had determined to reveal. When King Elessar entered the grand feasting hall, most of his guests had already arrived and were mingling, their common annoyance and feelings regarding their host pushing aside other cultural boundaries. With his arrival, all began moving to their assigned seats along the heavily laden tables and faced him upon his raised dais.

Once the appointed time to begin had come and gone, and he deemed all were in attendance and had started the elaborate meal, the King stood and addressed them. "Most esteemed guests and friends from afar, I brought you here this eve to apologize for abruptly withdrawing from the scheduled dialogues of yesterday and today."

Murmurs rippled through the hall as the representatives discussed their opinions of the subject. Elessar raised a hand and the voices gradually hushed until he could be heard once more. "In addition, I shall now divulge the dire matter that required my full and immediate consideration."

He had everyone's rapt attention now, even those serving the food and drink were still. "Someone poisoned the Ringbearer, with the intent of killing him." Gasps and disbelieving exclamations now spread through the audience. All had heard of the Ringbearer and were aware of his role in the victory against the Dark Lord. As the news sank in, the crowd became angry, and the King's silencing hand took much longer than before to quiet those before him. "I have exposed the individual behind this and the punishment shall surely suit the offense."

His words, however, did not soothe the ambassadors with their retinues, and soon cries of "Kill him! Kill him!" were echoing through the hall. This was not unexpected, and Aragorn felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Things were going just the way he had planned... now all that remained was for a certain barkeep to take the bait.

~~~~

The next morning dawned cool and bright, and once again, the ambassadors and embassies slept right through it. Others, however, were awake and ready long before the grey light of early morning diffused into the pastels of sunrise. The servants, as was usual, were in place at their wash tubs as soon as it was bright enough to see their work, including those who currently called the dungeons home. If Joram suspected anything out of the ordinary, he did not see anything unusual that even hinted this day would change his life forever.

It was past mid-morning before he heard others discussing the dinner the night before, and when he heard, he rejoiced. The individual is exposed, the King had said, yet he was still here, still enduring the back-breaking monotony that was the laundry. It could only mean that miserable hussy had been taken in his place. Victory is a wonderful thing, he thought complacently, cheerfully finishing up what remained from the previous day. He again approached his guard, requesting to be led upstairs so he could continue his duties.

The interminable stone steps leading up to the rest of society did not seem quite so long today, nor the ascent so difficult. Stone halls were again silent, though the sound of chirping birds echoed along the length, admitted somewhere by an open window. As their footsteps echoed along with the birdsong, Joram thought he heard another set of feet hurrying along the corridor ahead and out of sight, but dismissed it.

When Pippin saw the barkeep and his guard emerge from the stairwell, he fled from his look-out post and ran to the room, rapping thrice upon the door before crouching next to Merry in a convenient niche just down the hall from the door. The knock upon the wood spurred those within the room to action, Sam secreting himself under the bed as directed, Frodo lay down with his back to the door and calmed his breathing so as to appear asleep, and Aragorn in his traveling garb slid into the dark corner behind the door he opened to conceal himself, his dark clothes blending into shadow and hiding him almost as well as if he were invisible.

Approaching steps caused all to tense and listen carefully, gauging their distance from the goal with anxious ears. When Joram crossed the threshold of his destination, his guard again waited outside, this time by order of the King. He also had been given explicit directions of conduct for this situation.

The man crossed the room toward the pile awaiting him, noting the sleeping figure upon the bed and the absence of any others in the vicinity. He cast a furtive glance around the room; even his guard wasn't in direct range of sight, and he next looked to the herbal table. His additions were still there, though set aside, and he paused a moment in consideration. Here was his chance, his chance to be rid of the little runt once and for all, for by the time he left and others entered to check upon the small one, it would be too late. The contents of several pots and kettles upon the hearth would suit his purposes, if he could just distract his guard, somehow induce him to leave long enough for the deadly poison to steep...

'Nonsense!' another part of him cried. If the King already has that woman in chains, to do something now would throw all suspicion from her and onto him, for she could not implement such mischief from imprisonment. If he could just restrain himself, he would ensure his blameless appearance and her punishment for his crime...

'But what of revenge?' The first thought spoke again. Revenge is incomplete without the death of the runt and the subsequent destruction of all the upstart King has been orchestrating in past days. Complete the original plan, even if it means she goes free. But no... she may not go free even if he acts now. For who was to say she wasn't the one behind the first attempt? There was no evidence of his involvement in that incident, so he could argue that he only acted upon an apparent opportunity. After all, the herb remained upon the table, just awaiting a careless hand to include it in some healing brew. No one was here to see him hurry the process along, and if he had enough time, he could even administer the mixture himself, as long as an opportune moment arose. Who *wouldn't* want to give the poor, ailing halfling a drink to ease his coughing?

His bloodthirsty need for revenge flying faster than his reason, Joram decided to act. Aragorn tensed as the corrupt barkeep went to the table, lifting three of four remaining leaves and dropping them in a brewing tea upon the hearth, glancing over his shoulder warily as he did so. Sam also watched wide-eyed from beneath the bed, his hand clapped over his nose so he did not give in to the overwhelming urge to sneeze. He hadn't expected it to be quite this dusty in his hiding place, or he would've taken care of that beforehand. He carefully shifted to peek over at Strider's corner; the man hadn't moved, so neither would he.

Frodo also watched, having given up all pretense of sleep as soon as the man approached the table. He found it difficult to control his rising rage at this fool who had been offered mercy several times over and still persisted in his depraved ways. Didn't he realize what lay in store for him if he continued along this road? Death, and justly deserved.

In the hall, the guard had taken position on the other side of the door from the hobbits who had emerged from hiding. The three stood at the ready, should their quarry attempt an escape. Merry would've preferred they just close the door and be done with it, but Aragorn insisted that would be too obvious, besides possibly driving their prey out a window instead. So they waited, breath held in anticipation as unseen events unfolded within the walls.

As the man carefully attended the steeping of his brew, seemingly oblivious to the passage of time and blinded to the fact that the guard should have come looking for him by now, Frodo was having difficulty keeping a rein upon himself. He greatly desired to do *something* to the man who was proving himself worse than an orc, for an orc had no choice about what it was or what it did. The barkeep, on the other hand, had chosen every step along this destructive path, knowingly electing a life of irreputable dealings. He seethed with the injustice of it all, wishing he could force this man to experience true depravity as he had.

Aragorn saw Frodo begin to tense and mentally commanded the hobbit to calm himself, restrain himself, not give himself away in such a manner. But the hobbit did not hear his commands, and even if he had it was doubtful he would have listened, instead growing stiff with barely contained anger. The strain of emotion was more than his still ailing form could handle, and Frodo began to cough harshly.

Joram was surprised by the sound, then a slow smile crept across his face as he was presented with the perfect chance. He hurriedly poured half a mug of his concoction, concerned that others would hear the sound and arrive before he could perform his necessary tasks.

So concentrated was he upon the cup as he started toward the bed that he did not notice a form emerging from the shadows. "You really don't want to do that," the King warned coldly, and everything happened at once.

Joram startled at the unexpected voice, jumping in shock and spilling the hot beverage down his hand, burning himself. He dropped the mug with a curse, shaking his injured hand as he stared at the suddenly present man. Briefly glancing toward the bed and meeting a pair of icy blue eyes, he quickly got the hint and started for the door.

But his guard and the pair of hobbits outside had converged on the door when they heard the King speak, barring his exit. With a few short strides, the King and the guard trapped the refugee between them and soon had him restrained and kneeling on the floor in the puddle of his brew.

Sam rolled out of his concealment as soon as Strider stepped forward, all his concentration upon Frodo rather than the one who threatened his master. After all, Frodo was likely to be forgotten in the efforts to contain the barkeep. But Frodo had mostly regained control of himself, and now watched the events fold out with both satisfaction and horror-satisfaction that the man would be getting what he deserved, and horror at what the man had fully intended to do despite the consequences. He barely noticed when Merry and Pippin joined him and Sam on the bed, and once Joram was bound, everything paused as kneeling barkeep and bedridden hobbit exchanged glares of challenge.

Barely concealed hatred flowed from one to the other, its origin uncertain and inconsequential. King Elessar broke the palpable tension. "You will be taken back to the dungeons to await trial before a tribunal. Do not expect to be granted mercy as before," he informed the prisoner icily. "You will receive the due punishment for your numerous crimes." He nodded to the guard, who hauled Joram to his feet and veritably dragged him from the room.

Once the pair had left, Aragorn turned to the hobbits on the bed. "You all right?" he asked Frodo, who nodded in silent confirmation. "Good. You should rest. I won't have you moved until later this afternoon, at the earliest. It will be safest if we have the secrecy of darkness to conceal the move, so none will know your new location. The rest of you should rest, as well," he addressed the others. "It has been a stressful day. I shall have Gandalf come by later with lunch for you." He winked and left the room, other pressing matters upon his mind now that this situation was resolved for the moment. The first was to find the wizard, to confirm the house's readiness for the hobbits, and inform him of what he'd promised for later. Now, where to find him who disappeared at the most inconvenient of times...


	16. The Tribunal Commences

"I do not expect he will cooperate."

Sam eyed his sleeping master, then turned and again peered over the window sill at the distant ground. "No, 'e won'," he stated flatly, then muttered, "Not sure I'll be wantin' to, neither."

"Yes, Sam, I know. But you have to trust me," Aragorn asserted, amused but also slightly exasperated by the gardener's protests. "If you leave by way of the door, any number of people will see and the entire move would be pointless. But if you leave by way of the window, no one will realize the four of you are no longer staying here. We plan to keep up the pretense just until Joram is taken care of and I deem it safe," he explained for what seemed the hundredth time.

The skeptical hobbit standing beside him still looked doubtful, but finally he sighed and shook his head in resignation. "Guess there's no other way, then."

"You will do it, then?"

A sidelong glance and a curt reply: "'E'll have my hide if 'e figures it out."

"He will refuse to take it from me. You he still trusts." He paused and added reassuringly, "Frodo is tired and still not feeling well. He won't suspect a thing."

~~~~

As dusk deepened into night, Aragorn finished preparations for the hobbits' flight, then left the room so as not to arouse Frodo's suspicion. Not long after his departure the ailing hobbit awoke briefly, took some tea at Sam's insistence, and soon went back to sleep, as he felt so very tired... Once Sam judged that his master had returned to deep sleep, he sent Merry and Pippin to fetch Strider -and to get them to stop hovering and looking over his shoulder at all times. Their new superior height was quite the nuisance at times.

The pair soon returned, followed not long after by the King, who gave the bed and its occupants only a cursory glance as he crossed to the open window and thrust his head through it. It was several moments before they could hear him say, "Ah, there you are." He withdrew back into the room and Faramir appeared at the opening.

"Indeed. I was momentarily confused at the last corner," the Steward admitted sheepishly, resting his arms casually on the window sill.

"Merry, Pippin, go," Aragorn ordered, motioning at the window as he checked to be sure Frodo was soundly asleep before efficiently bundling him in a few quilts. Sam sat and watched him, moving only reluctantly toward the window when told to follow the other two.

The cousins were already outside, helped down by Faramir, but Sam wasn't so sure he wanted to follow suit. It had seemed far to the ground during the day, but now that it was dark the distance seemed to stretch infinitely down, much like that abyss under the Bridge of Khazad-dum...

"Sam, either go now or I will pass Frodo to him and you'll have to jump for it, and rely on those two rascals to catch you," Aragorn warned sternly as he approached the window carrying a bundled Frodo. The gardener quickly decided going now was the better option, so he screwed up his courage and flung himself into the void, eliciting a grunted "Oof!" from Faramir as he caught the hobbit. "Easy there," the Steward urged as he set Sam down a few steps from the window. "There, that wasn't so hard, now was it?"

If there had been more light, he would've seen the hobbit giving him a scathing glare, but as it was Faramir could tell he wasn't pleased. The man left the grumbling gardener and returned to the window to receive an armful of sleeping hobbit. Once Frodo was out, Aragorn closed the window and disappeared from view as Faramir joined the three hobbits on a garden path.

"Where's 'e goin'?" Sam wanted to know.

"If the King were to enter a room and never leave it, many would quickly become suspicious," the man with them said by way of explanation.

"He could say Gandalf conjured him away," Pippin offered helpfully, meriting an aghast "Pippin!" from Merry.

"I am capable of many things that you cannot even begin to imagine, Peregrin Took, but I do NOT conjure people away!" retorted a gruff voice from behind them.

Sam wasn't sure if he should be relieved or concerned by the wizard's arrival- if Strider brought Gandalf into it, he probably had even more ridiculous notions up his sleeve than what he'd already suggested. "Why're you here?" he asked bluntly, ignoring all thoughts of his proper place in preference to finding out what was going on.

Luckily for him, Gandalf seemed more amused than angered by his forthrightness. "I am simply taking an evening stroll with my dear hobbit friends," he said innocently, taking Frodo from the Steward, who hurried away.

Merry thought he had it figured out now. "So you're taking us to wherever we're going, then."

"Indeed," he confirmed, leading them down the path at a brisk pace. A half dozen twists and turns later, all the while keeping to the shadows so the moonlight would not illuminate their presence, the small party arrived at a humble two-story house wedged against the boundary wall. No lights could be seen from outside, but once the wizard had led the hobbits in the door and past the front row of rooms, the interior was warm and cheery. Fires were blazing in the fireplaces of a modest sitting room, a small kitchen, and two bedrooms at the back of the house.

Gandalf disappeared into one of the bedrooms to put Frodo to bed, and the other three automatically trailed after him, noticing that their meager belongings had already been moved and distributed between the rooms. Pippin wandered further down the corridor -off which the two bedrooms were the first rooms- and discovered two other bedrooms, dark and chilly. At the end of the hallway a stairway stretched up into shadow, and he turned away with a shiver. He'd been in two-story buildings before, of course, but was more comfortable when closer to the ground, especially when the upper floor loomed menacingly above him as this one did.

Merry disinterestedly scanned both lit bedrooms, noting his and Pippin's things were in the first and Frodo's and Sam's in the second, and kept an eye on Pip as he wandered while loitering about the door of the second room as Gandalf and Sam laid Frodo carefully in the bed. He wondered what his cousin's first reaction would be upon waking in a strange bed, strange room, and even a strange building. He chuckled as he imagined Frodo's face and what would be his cousin's first surprised utterance. Frodo would likely pin the whole thing on him and Pip, despite the truth of the matter.

Frodo remained sound asleep through the entire trip, for which Gandalf was grateful. It was much easier to simply move the stubborn hobbit and explain later, particularly since that way he could not resist. Tucking him in gently, the wizard made sure everything he might need was nearby, then turned to go, shooing Samwise out of the room as well. He herded the three hobbits to the sitting room and made himself comfortable in one of the larger chairs, knowing quite well they would have questions, many questions, about what was going on. And they didn't let him down.

"What next, Gandalf?" Merry asked, shifting restlessly on the short couch, shoving Pippin over so he could have a bit of space to himself.

The wizard settled back for what was likely to become a long discussion. "You four will remain here until such a time as we deem safe for you to return to more hospitable quarters. It is of uttermost importance that you stay away from the front of the house!" he commanded severely. "Only by keeping your presence here a secret will it remain safe for you, and especially for Frodo. Joram likely has alliances with other unsavory characters, and it has been shown that he is very creative in his schemes."

"What's going to happen to him?" Pippin asked, wide-eyed.

"He will again be judged, this time by the highest ranking individual from each region, as well as by Aragorn. The tribunal commences in the morning."

"What's this tribunal going to do?" Merry was fascinated by this approach, so different from anything seen in the Shire.

"They will call forth witnesses concerning Joram's deeds and decide his fate from the testimony. It is possible each of you will be asked to speak, though Aragorn will avoid dragging you into it if at all possible. Though I find it highly likely that Frodo will be called before them, so we must ensure he gets enough rest and sustenance that he is able to withstand their scrutiny when the time comes."

"Are you goin' to stay here, too?" asked Sam, thinking of the high counters and cabinets in the kitchen and realizing what a chore it would be for the hobbits to attempt cooking for themselves.

"No, I will be returning to the palace to aid with the hearings and keep the rest of our unruly guests in order while their superiors are engaged," he grimaced as he explained, not looking forward to the tediousness of making sure the servants answered every beck and call of each self-important aide. Seeing the question in the hobbits' faces, he added, "Aragorn will send for Jael to aid you and keep an eye on Frodo."

"Frodo will be pleased," Sam commented.

~~~~

Frodo shifted restlessly, able to discern even in sleep that something was different, something had *changed*. The comfortable body-framing impressions he’d worn into the mattress seemed to have disappeared, and now there were lumps in all the wrong places. But his mind, rational though it may be, couldn’t puzzle out the reason as he lay suspended between dream and reality. He floated sometimes upon the waves of half-consciousness, at other times was deeply submerged in dream. Barely remembered scenes were all his memory retained of those dreams, and of the nightmare that woke him, nothing. All he knew was being terrified out of his wits and then welcoming the moment that he jerked awake, gasping as he bolted upright in bed.

Dimly he was aware that he was indeed no longer in the familiar room, but that thought was driven quickly out of mind when his gasps turned into rasping coughs. Over the sound of each rough exhalation he heard hurried footsteps, a door opening, and someone -or was it two someones? He couldn’t tell- entered the room, coming beside him, and rubbing his back comfortingly as he fought for control of his breathing. Finally the fit ended, and a tumbler of water was pressed into his hand; he looked up to see Sam standing next to him. “Sam, where...?” he motioned vaguely and knew the other would understand. Now drinking the water thirstily, he nearly choked in surprise when the answer didn't come from Sam.

"You're in a small house near to the citadel, where the four of you shall remain for a time."

"Jael?!" he asked incredulously, craning his neck to look at the person seated behind him and still rubbing his back. "You're back!"

"Indeed," she said with a smile. "'Tis good to see you so well."

He smiled as well, then sobered. "I'm sorry you were sent away."

"'Twas not easy," she admitted ruefully, "but it was necessary to trap that scoundrel. I am told you spoke on my behalf, for which I am most grateful."

He shrugged. "It was the least I could do."

"Now that I have returned, I expect you to heed what the King directs," she scolded with obvious amusement.

Frodo blushed and studied the empty cup in his hands; at length he nodded and yawned. "What is the time?"

"Very early-dawn has not yet come."

He yawned again and griped, "It seems all I do is sleep."

Jael chuckled as she gently pushed him back onto the pillows. "You were very ill, and more than once. It takes a good deal of rest to recover from such."

"Where are Merry and Pip?" he asked drowsily, having just noticed their absence.

"Sleeping in the next room," she informed him.

He nodded slowly and made himself comfortable as she tucked the quilts up over him. "Shouldn't Sam be sleeping, too?" But he was asleep before he was answered.

Jael stood for a moment, watching as his face relaxed into peaceful slumber, and rescuing the cup from loose fingers before it could clatter to the floor. Then she turned to the other small halfling, standing beside her. "He was right. You should be asleep as well. It will be some hours before he or the others awaken." Her tone brooked no argument, so he nodded meekly. She left the room as he crawled under the covers next to his master and settled into a weary sleep.

Smiling as she quietly closed the door, Jael then turned to the kitchen. It would be a tricky matter, keeping four hobbits fed at the proper times, and she thought she'd get a head start on the necessary cooking. Though, of course, whatever she made wasn't likely to see sundown that day.

The kitchen had been fully stocked before her arrival with all the foodstuffs that could usually be found around the city: lots of bread, potatoes, some chicken and salted meat, canned fruits and vegetables- it was much too early in the year for fresh produce, especially given the destruction of the city and its surrounding fields by the War. There were also baskets of mushrooms, which she recognized from the hobbits' meals before, though she had to admit she didn't know how to prepare them. She would have to wait for one of the hobbits to wake and give her instructions.

As she acquainted herself with the small kitchen, she began to realize that most of the things necessary for cooking and food preparation would be above poor Sam's head, and there wasn't always much one could do from a chair, standing or no. She would have to find something else to keep him occupied and hopefully have the other two, who had a bit on him in height, assist her, though she doubted they would always be of much use.

Most of the dishes she found were dusty and dirty, as if they had been abandoned for a long time. She'd have to wash them before she would be able to cook anything. Thankfully she had thought to build up the fires so she had only to put on some water to heat. She chose a few pans and began with those; the rest could wait to be cleaned by idle hobbit hands. Once that was accomplished, she set one on the stove and started some chicken simmering into broth, and put the other on the table to await the preparation of a stew. And so she passed several hours until the smells of her efforts wafting through the house drew two hungry hobbits who were more than happy to assist her as long as they could consume the results.

They easily settled into what became a routine of food preparation, meals, and the time in between, the only real variable being if Frodo was awake or asleep. Jael was pleased with how often he was awake for a length of time, though she made sure he didn't push himself too much yet, and for the most part he didn't argue. That day and the next passed without incident, and evening found them in the cozy sitting room, the hobbits wedged companionably on the small, worn couch, conversing animatedly on a variety of topics, sometimes changing subjects so rapidly that it took a while for Jael to figure out what they were discussing now. But mostly she kept to herself and left them to chatter on as she sat in a chair closer to the fire and worked on some mending.

All talk ceased, however, when they heard the front door open and close and footsteps echo through the darkened front rooms. Jael quickly stood and crossed to the room's doorway, keeping the hobbits back with a gesture and a look. The heavy steps trod closer, and she stiffened, considering her options and how she could possibly defend the hobbits, if that became necessary. But those fears were banished when the figure came close enough for his features to be seen more clearly in the light spilling from the room.

"My lord," she greeted him, breathing a sigh of relief. Still on the couch, the hobbits relaxed as well, Merry and Pippin sitting back as it became obvious they would not need to come to her aid.

"Well, it seems like you miscreants have been behaving," Aragorn said, taking in the looks of pure innocence all four hobbits bestowed upon him. "Merry, Pippin, why don't you help Jael bring in the supplies? They'll be right outside the door." The two hopped off the couch and hurried out the door, knowing full well there would likely be some choice tidbits to snitch from the food.

When the trio left the room, Aragorn turned to Frodo and Sam. "Frodo, how are you doing?" he asked, pulling another worn chair closer to the end of the couch where the two hobbits were seated.

He shifted restlessly, burrowing a little further into the corner of the couch and absent-mindedly playing with the fringe of the small blanket in his lap as he replied, "I'm feeling better. I still get" -his yawn ended with a small cough- "tired rather quickly, though."

The King nodded. "That will continue to be the case for some time, I suspect. Sam? Anything else he's not telling me?" he asked, more than a little amused by the glances the two exchanged- Frodo concerned and Sam apologetic.

"He's still off 'is feed and all, and sometimes 'e wakes up coughing, but tha's it."

Aragorn was slower to nod this time as he appraisingly eyed Frodo's condition for himself. The Ringbearer looked a bit peaked, but he suspected the hobbit had been awake for a while and would soon have retired if not for his arrival. Perhaps the hobbit would be sound enough... "The tribunal is requiring that you testify tomorrow," he stated without preamble.

Frodo's eyes widened. "Why? Aren't the words of others enough?"

He shook his head. "No, they want to see you with their own eyes, see how you're recovering, and hear directly from you on this issue. They are quite insistent that it be tomorrow, as well. I was unable to sway them into allowing a few more days to pass."

"And if I do not appear?"

"It is likely they will dismiss Joram and the charges against him," Aragorn said flatly. He was adamantly against this proposal, but his voice could not outweigh all others' in an assembly of peers.

Frodo closed his eyes and considered; allowing Joram to escape without further penalty was not something he wanted to happen. The man had pushed too far to be let free now; he must face the consequences of his actions. So he had no real choice in the matter. "I will do it," he said finally, meeting Aragorn's gaze evenly.

"Good. Someone will come for you before dawn."

"Why before dawn?" the sleepy hobbit asked, yawning again.

"It is easier to remain concealed in the darkness. We will return you to your former room, where you can sleep until you are called for."

"What shall I wear?" he inquired, looking vaguely distressed as he realized he had no idea where his clothes were, having worn only nightshirts since the ordeal began many days ago. He had to admit he didn't even know where the nightshirts kept coming from, most of them being changed while he slept.

The King laughed, and answered, "Some of your clothing yet remains in the other room. You can choose from that."

"Is 'e goin' alone, then?" Sam wanted to know.

Aragorn considered him thoughtfully, then slowly replied, "I think it would be best if the rest of you stayed here. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say."

~~~~

Dawn came much too early in Frodo's opinion, and being roused even before the sun made its appearance was downright disgraceful. Gandalf came for him, and carried him back to the citadel, passing him through the window to Aragorn. The King told him the tribunal would be commencing at the third hour, and he would be called for almost immediately. He didn't care much, as long as someone came to wake him in time he was perfectly content with whatever plans they made for him, and after being put into the bed he promptly fell back asleep.

Gandalf returned with a small tray of edibles to wake him and ensure he ate before donning the clothes set out for him in preparation for his appearance before the tribunal. Frodo ate a few bits of this, a couple bites of that, and abandoned the rest, beginning to feel trepidation over what was to come. The clothes laid out on the end of the bed were ones he didn't readily recognize -a soft light-coloured shirt, breeches that were some shade of light grey, and a blue vest- but then he'd received several sets of clothes since they'd arrived in the city, so he wasn't surprised that there would be some he didn't remember having.

He looked at Gandalf expectantly after getting dressed, but the wizard made a vague motion at his head. "A brush might be in order," he said, trying not to look as amused as he was.

"Of course," Frodo muttered, slightly embarrassed, and quickly located a comb. Once that problem was remedied, Gandalf led him from the room and down the seemingly endless corridors until they reached a pair of dark and imposing doors. Guards on either side nodded to them and pulled open those wooden monstrosities, revealing a great room filled with people.

The hall extended for quite a way, great pillars lining both sides and supporting the roof that seemed miles above his head. The white marble floors and walls gleamed, the dark pillars contrasting starkly with their brightness. Through the throngs of people standing between the pillars he could see large statues gazing solemnly upon the scene from niches in the walls.

Straight ahead, elevated above everything else in the room was the white throne, occupied by the King wearing his crown, and behind him graven into the wall was a branching tree. Next to the stairs leading up to the throne was a dark chair in which Faramir was seated, bearing the white rod of the Stewards. The floor immediately in front of the throne's dais was arrayed with two rows of tables, at which the members of the impromptu tribunal sat to pass judgement.

The floor was cold on his bare feet as Frodo stepped hesitantly forward and into the gaze of so many eyes. As he cautiously entered the room, all of the emissaries, ambassadors, and officials stood, led by the King and the Steward of the city rising to pay tribute to the small being before them. Frodo was surprised to see Legolas in the second row; the elf acknowledged him with a dip of his head, and he realized he shouldn't be surprised at all. His friend was, after all, a prince of his homeland and the only representative of his people in the vicinity of the city to participate in what was becoming quite a spectacle. Thankful as he was that he recognized a few of those scrutinizing him, there were still far too many forbidding faces of races he knew had once been their enemies. His heart in his throat, Frodo wanted to turn and hide, but Gandalf's hand at his back urged him forward.

A bench had been set for him in the center of the room, far enough away from the first row of tables to put him a bit more at ease, and Gandalf pressed him to sit down and set a small flask beside him. "Water, if you have need of it," he said in a low voice before leaving Frodo's side and disappearing into the crowd somewhere behind him. Those before him sat as well and he regarded them with apprehension, resisting the urge to swing his feet as they dangled from the bench. He felt so lonely and exposed, being stared at from all sides, and wished they had allowed someone to come with him.

Once the first question had been uttered, they flew thick and fast until his head was spinning with all the demands for details of his experiences, his illness, his recovery. He answered them as best he could, but felt as if his answers weren't sufficient and wouldn't be enough to merit any action on their part against Joram. Finally the stream of inquiries dwindled and a long silence reigned.

Then a woman in the first row stood and spoke in heavily accented Westron. He guessed her to be from the region of Harad, by her accent and elaborate clothing in reds and golds, cutting an impressive figure amongst the drab clothing of the natives of the city. "Forgive me, master Perian, you must think me quite bold. But I speak as one unfamiliar with your kind, as are many others here. I request that you prove you are indeed the Ringbearer, for all of you small folk look the same to my eyes." Nods of agreement from others followed her words as she sat down once again.

Frodo looked to Aragorn for direction; he was not sure what his identity as the former Ringbearer had to do with the matter at hand, but did not wish to displease his audience by flatly refusing. The King's face was unreadable, but after a moment he nodded slowly. The hobbit slid down from his bench, taking a deep breath as he started forward on wobbly legs, the distance to the long table before him seeming miles away. He approached the woman, and standing a few paces distant, inquired politely, "What manner of proof do you require?"

She wasn't as forbidding up close as she was at a distance, her amiable expression and kind eyes hinting at the type of person concealed by the formal attire. But he could also tell her will was of steel, and her manner could change from friendly to fierce in an instant. Thankfully it was the friendly side he now faced.

Her eyes searched his expression for any hint of guile or deceit and, finding none, replied carefully, "You have seen much, small one. Rather than ask for the details of your journey, I request only to see your damaged hand. It would seem to be the simplest proof."

He swallowed heavily and again looked to Aragorn in desperation. He did not relish others seeing his deformity -it was why he kept it hidden as much as possible- and to display it to so many eyes at once was not to his liking. But Aragorn again nodded and motioned for him to proceed. Steeling himself, he ventured closer to the table until he was directly opposite the woman and laid his hand flat upon the surface for her to see.

She and the men on either side of her peered at it curiously, but before long she nodded and announced to the room, "I am convinced." To Frodo's surprise, she then stood and put a hand to her chest in the salute of her people. "I honor you, Ringbearer," she said solemnly, still speaking so all could hear. "Your courage is unparalleled and your deeds shall be renowned as long as there is one to speak of them."

He wanted to protest her kind words, but would not have been heard over the rustling of clothing and the scraping of chairs as all the others at the tables stood, also saluting him and what he'd done. This display of respect stunned him speechless, and he was most grateful when Aragorn called for a recess and the emissaries dispersed.

"What was that about?" he demanded as soon as he and the King were out of earshot of any others as the Hall emptied. "Are they saying that it is my status rather than Joram's deeds that is most important?!"

"So it would seem," Aragorn agreed thoughtfully.

"You mean to tell me if Joram had poisoned Sam or Merry or Pippin, it wouldn't matter?" he asked, incredulous.

Aragorn shrugged. "I do not know, Frodo. But evidence for that conclusion assuredly exists. I know, it doesn't make sense. It isn't fair. But at this point I am more concerned that Joram is punished rather than how each of them justifies his condemnation." He saw the hobbit's disbelieving expression and added, "I am almost certain they will now decide in your favor. You did very well."

"I still don't think it should've been necessary," Frodo grumbled.

Aragorn allowed the comment to go unanswered, not caring to fuel the argument. "You should rest. I do not think they will require further testimony from you, but it would be best if you remained nearby for the rest of the day." When Frodo didn't reply, he looked down to see the hobbit yawn mightily, and he chuckled. "Come. I will take you back to your room." He scooped up the sleepy, unprotesting hobbit and strode from the hall, all and sundry quickly getting out of his way as he traversed the corridors. If any smiled at the incongruous sight of the King carrying the Ringbearer, they waited until the pair was long past before doing so.


	17. Condemned

Frodo slumped sleepily against the King's chest as Aragorn swiftly carried him back to his room. Well, they often referred to it as his room, but he honestly had no idea who it actually belonged to or whom he and the other hobbits displaced when they began occupying it. He hoped whoever it was didn't mind...

He yawned and blinked, realizing as he did so that the wings on the side of Aragorn's crown resembled those of a bird poised to take off. Naturally, his next thought was an image of the crown -or better yet, Aragorn's entire head- deciding to fly away. Ridiculous, yes, but rather funny nonetheless, and he could barely restrain his giggles. Laughter then unfortunately led to coughing, as what he'd fought to hold back all morning broke his restraint in this unguarded moment.

It was not as bad as it would have been in days past, but the coughing still hurt and he had to spend a few moments to recover his breath. By the time he was again aware of the world around him, he was sitting on the edge of his familiar bed and Aragorn was hovering over him, pressing a glass of water into his hand. He complied and drank the cool liquid, then handed the glass back and began arranging the bedding to his liking. "Will they want to see me again?" he asked, having settled things to his satisfaction and sinking gratefully against the pillows.

"They are difficult to predict," Aragorn admitted, returning to the bed from the hearth, cup of soup in hand, which he gave to the reluctant hobbit. Frodo accepted it and slowly began to drink it, and the Man continued. "But I do not think so. You greatly impressed them, I deem, and I expect they will not require any further testimony."

Frodo nodded, finishing the soup with a sigh. "Now what happens?"

"They will need to decide upon an appropriate punishment. It is likely too much to hope that this process will be concluded quickly, but many seem to have already resolved what to do. We shall have to see," said Aragorn, taking the cup and setting it aside. "I shall send someone if your presence is again required. And Esli will be just outside if you have need of anything."

"All right," Frodo murmured sleepily, burrowing a little deeper into the covers before allowing his eyes to drop closed.

~~~

Whatever their cultural differences, once reconvened the many members of the Tribunal proved to be of one mind in deciding how to proceed. It was quickly determined that no additional statements were necessary and they should move directly to the debate concerning Joram's fate. In this matter they also agreed: the man must die. At this point some dissension arose regarding the manner in which the barkeep should perish, but a few short hours after all had assembled, a decision was reached.

A long pause followed the unanimous vote, as all tried to digest the reality that everyone concurred in so short a time, a thing unthinkable amongst so many different peoples. King Elessar used the silence to broach the subject of when the sentence would be carried out, and even on this an accord was soon reached: this doom was to take place on the morrow. Messengers were dispatched with orders to put all in readiness for the execution, and stewards from every emissary were sent out to summon all to the Great Hall in one hour for the proclamation of Joram's punishment.

An hour later saw the hall crowded with people, an excited murmur of voices filling the air in anticipation. Aragorn had gone to rouse Frodo himself, and sent Esli to fetch Jael and the other hobbits; he deemed the immediate danger had passed and the hobbits would appreciate the opportunity to finally leave the house they had been cooped up in for the past few days. Aragorn had Frodo stand near one of the immense pillars with Esli, where Jael and the other hobbits found him just before the proceedings began.

Their joyful reunion -even though they'd been separated for but a few hours- was cut short when King Elessar ascended his throne and all seated at the tables rose. Joram was led in, heavily guarded, to stand before the Tribunal as his end was announced: at the sixth hour, he was to be hung outside the city gates, as an example and a warning to all that justice had returned to the city, never again to leave its inhabitants to anarchy and oppression of the weak and helpless.

Joram seemed unmoved by this declaration, not even twitching as he was informed so casually of his impending death. Frodo was amazed at his callousness in the face of his own demise. He would never be able to understand Men's attitudes in such things.

~~~

The next morning, a number of wagons and carriages lined up before the citadel around the fifth hour to convey the dignitaries down to the city gates, far below. Each emissary with his advisors were given separate carriages; King Elessar, the Steward, and the hobbits -along with Jael and Esli- rode in the last wagon, which had the dubious distinction of being followed directly by Joram being prodded along on foot, still heavily guarded.

The parade wound its way slowly through the levels of the city, collecting quite a following as onlookers trailed them on foot to see what the fuss was about, while others gathered in the windows of the buildings along the walls to get a better view.

The wagon bumped jerkily over the cobbles of the streets and the sun burned brightly overhead, promising a warm day for the grim event. Frodo sighed as the wooden side dug into his back yet again, wondering if there was a quicker way to the gate. He was still tired from yesterday and wasn't sure he wanted to actually witness Joram's death. The thought wasn't appealing, being so foreign to his experience. They certainly did not do such things in the Shire. Sam looked as unsure about it as he was, but Merry and Pippin seemed strangely curious about the whole thing.

Finally they arrived at their destination, and a crowd of people soon surrounded the rough wooden structure that stood menacingly above them. The commoners were kept back from those of higher rank until they found places to stand near the gallows, and the hobbits were given places right in the front row so none of the taller folk blocked their view. Jael and Esli also stood with them.

A number of minutes passed in which nothing happened as all took their places and everything was made ready. One of the soldiers acted as executioner, and was only too happy to do so: he'd had run-ins with Joram in the past, and owed the shady barkeep a debt of vengeance. He dragged his victim onto the platform, standing him next to the hanging bit of rope and tying his hands tightly behind his back. If the soldier used more force than necessary while doing so, no one commented on it.

Standing in wait, Frodo heard someone yelling vile curses at the man on the platform, and a bit of observation revealed the source of the voice was an unkempt woman a half dozen paces down the line. He exchanged amused glances with Merry as the foul language continued to spill forth; very creative, she was, in her swearing, and for a moment he was tempted to cover Pippin's ears, but realized he had probably heard them all and more while among the soldiers of the city.

Still the woman continued her tirade, and Frodo's curiosity was piqued. Stepping out of line, he walked closer to the woman and noticed two small children peeking out from behind her limp skirts. The woman herself was red-faced in her exertion as she gestured wildly and yelled harshly in a grating voice. She might have been attractive once, but an unkind life had worn its way into her face and appearance. He stood in front of her and she seemed not to notice until he spoke. "My lady, who are you that you abuse him so roundly?" he inquired politely.

It seemed at first she was going to turn her wrath upon the halfling before her, but stopped herself as she realized he was not a child as she had thought at first glance. She seemed puzzled, then comprehension dawned. "Ye be one o' them small folk," she said in awe.

"That I am," he acknowledged with a bow of his head and a small smile.

Now she was flustered, wringing her hands as she tried to phrase a polite response. "I'm right glad t' meet ye," she said hesitantly. "Sorry if ye be one o' them mistreated by that scoundrel," she added, spitting in disgust after gesturing toward Joram. "Tha' maggot be me husband', an' a right bad husband' he be, too."

"Your husband? I'm terribly sorry, I did not realize Joram had a family," Frodo answered.

"Well, it seems he don' care he do, neither. Bea' on me an' the chil’ren, he did, so we leave and I ain' seen 'im since. We been livin' wi' me fambly," she explained, her previous anger returning with this tale of Joram's misdeeds.

Frodo was bothered by her story, both at Joram's behavior and at the growing unease that Aragorn also didn't know about Joram's wife and children. What were they to do now that Joram was to be killed? Joram may not have been doing his part in their support, but Frodo doubted from the looks of the woman and her children that the woman's family had the means to feed and clothe them for much longer.

He took his leave of the woman with a few polite platitudes and anxiously scanned the crowd for Aragorn. The King needed to know about this, and sooner rather than later. He would need to provide somehow for this woman, and while Frodo didn't think the new information would change Joram's fate, it might delay the execution until arrangements could be made.

Frodo had just spotted Aragorn ascending the steps of the platform when Jael pulled him back and kept him from following. "It's starting," she said in a hushed whisper as she led him back to where the other hobbits were and stood him between her and Sam.

Drums rolled to call all to attention, and a hush fell over the crowd as King Elessar and the Steward of the City stepped to the front of the platform. Faramir carried a roll of parchment and once all was silent he solemnly began to read the account of Joram's crimes against the city. It was a lengthy list, and concluded with the poisoning attempt made against the Ringbearer, at which point one and all present expressed disdain for the condemned man.

Joram did not flinch, and once the crowd quieted, the King asked him, "What say you to these deeds?"

The barkeep made no answer, staring coldly out into the crowd even as they again erupted in shouts of scorn.

Elessar motioned for them to cease their cries, and soon they were silent once again. "This is your last chance to speak. Plead for mercy now and we may be lenient. Remain reticent, and your doom will be carried out."

Joram still said nothing, instead scanning the crowd with his eyes until his roving sight located the hobbits. His gaze locked upon Frodo's, wordless challenge passing between them as Frodo watched with growing unease.

When the condemned refused to speak on his own behalf, the Steward read the decision reached the previous day, to the crowd's delight. The people cheered as Faramir stepped back and the soldier-hangman pushed Joram underneath the dangling rope. He roughly shoved the barkeep's head into the noose at the King's nod, and tightened the loop in preparation. Stepping aside, he grasped the lever handle and waited.

"Let it be done," the King commanded, and retreated to the back of the platform to observe.

Through it all, Joram held Frodo's gaze, staring disdainfully, seemingly aware of the hobbit's discomfort under his scrutiny. Frodo did not want to see what was going to happen next, wanted to close his eyes, but did not want to appear weak or cowardly by being the first to break eye contact. The sun beat down upon his head mercilessly, and the crowd's cries echoed shrilly in his ears as he tried not to think about what was about to happen or the man staring cruelly down at him.

The multitude became absolutely silent as the soldier moved the lever, and all of time seemed to slow. The square below Joram's feet fell away, abandoning the man to the open space and the pull of the rope securely around his neck. He descended slowly, looking directly at the small hobbit staring up at him in shock. A loud crack echoed and the lifeless body came to a sudden stop, left to dangle limply in the breeze. The corpse's eyes remained open, his vacant stare still fixed upon him who led to his demise.

Frodo looked on in horror, not able to pull his eyes away. When the malignant glare of those piercing eyes went unfocused, he finally wrested his gaze from them, only to take in the sight of the formerly alive man. Joram was so limp, so lifeless, hanging there like a piece of meat strung up, those open eyes still fixed upon him, his head resting at an odd angle . . . His vision grew dark and all the noise around him sounded far away, and he felt a moment of panic as he realized he could not seem to draw in enough air. He thought he heard a voice calling, "Mr. Frodo? Are you all right?" but he could not be sure.

Jael knew something was wrong when the pull upon her skirts was abruptly lessened -Frodo had grasped a handful of fabric in anxiety as the execution was being set into motion, though she suspected he didn't even realize he had done so- but now that grip loosened inexplicably. She turned to see Samwise shaking his master's shoulder urgently, saying something she could not hear over the uproar of the crowd, and Frodo was not responding. Instead, his vacant eyes were fixed upon the gallows and the body upon it, his expression blank and his face waxen, shallow breaths coming much too rapidly.

She dropped into a crouch and pulled the pale hobbit down to sit upon her knee and shoved his head down between his knees, one arm under his shoulders in case he passed out. "Frodo! Breathe! Slowly: in, one, two, three; out, one, two, three . . ." she commanded and gradually he seemed to respond to her authoritative directions. The other three hobbits crowded anxiously around her, and stood silently for the several minutes it took to get Frodo to come around and start breathing more normally.

The heaving breaths he now took to compensate for his earlier lack irritated his healing passageways and set off more coughs that shook him with their force. He gripped Jael's arm as he fought to regain control, and she waited patiently, rubbing his back until the spasms ran their course. Then she reached out her hand and Esli gave her his water flask; the two exchanged a nod and a look before Jael uncorked the flask and gave it to Frodo.

By the time Frodo drank his fill, Aragorn reached their small huddle, having had to fight his way through the press of people to reach them after seeing the commotion. "I'm fine," Frodo said to reassure them all, but knowing him, none believed his words. He went on speaking nonetheless. "Aragorn, Joram... he had a wife and children! Did you know? What happens to them now?"

Aragorn was slightly taken aback by this revelation. "No, I did not know... how did you discover this?"

"She was yelling and cursing at him before.... everything, so I asked her who she was."

"Walked right up and talked to her, he did," Sam confirmed.

"What did she tell you?"

"She is, or was, married to him and has two small children. He mistreated them, so they left and have been living with her family ever since. But Aragorn, I don't think they'll last much longer..." he looked beseechingly up at the King from his perch on Jael's knee.

"I will see what can be done. Can you point her out to me?"

"Of course," he said, rising a little unsteadily. Aragorn picked him up to see over the crowd, and Frodo pointed to the woman not too far off. "There, that's her with the two bairns."

"Thank you. I shall return in a moment," he said as he put Frodo down and went in the direction of the woman identified.

"Are you all right?" Sam asked once Aragorn left.

"Yes, as I said before, I'm fine." Seeing the doubtful expressions, he added, "I was just unprepared for... for that," and gestured toward the wooden structure and what was upon it without looking at it.

"It *is* different than anything we are accustomed to," Merry conceded.

"You do not have executions in your homeland?" Esli inquired.

All four hobbits shook their heads. "No, no executions," Pippin confirmed.

"We've no reason to need them," added Frodo.

"You must have a very peaceful society," Jael commented wistfully.

"Aye, that we do," Sam agreed.

Once Aragorn returned, they returned to the wagon for the slow, winding trip back up the city. Many more people were in the streets now, it being past midday, and they stared in curiosity as the vehicles rumbled by, especially at the hobbits in the company of the King. The journey back did not seem as long to Frodo, passing the time in a short nap, resting his head against Jael's arm.

By the time they were again at the citadel, it was nearly the eighth hour and the hobbits were famished; once awoken, even Frodo confessed to being a little hungry. The kitchens had ready a large number of dishes for the hungry hobbits to devour, which were taken to the hobbits' room for them to consume at their leisure. Silence descended upon the room for many minutes as each devoted himself to his portion of the thick stews, roasted vegetables and mushrooms, tender meats, and warm bread so generously provided. Aragorn, Esli, and Jael watched with some amusement as they more slowly delved into their own portions.

"You done with that?" Pippin asked Frodo, gesturing to his cousin's barely touched plate of chicken and vegetables.

"Yes, quite," he said, handing it to the tweenager, who had already finished with his serving and was looking to fill in the corners.

"Oy! You've eaten all the mushrooms!" Pippin cried in distress.

"What else would you expect, my dear Peregrin? But you can have the rest." Merry gave Frodo a questioning glance, to which he answered defensively, "I'm not *that* hungry. Besides, I finished my stew."

Merry let it rest at that, and it was some time until any further words were spoken. "Aragorn, what are you going to do about Joram's wife?" Frodo asked finally, pushing away his dishes and sitting back against the headboard of the bed.

"I told her to come before me tomorrow. However, I have not yet decided how this matter will be handled," he replied from his seat in the chair still next to the bed.

Frodo nodded and lost himself in thought. Then something occurred to him. "What is to happen to Joram's tavern?" he asked slowly.

Aragorn met Frodo's questioning gaze and understood what the hobbit was asking. "That idea definitely has merit," he replied, mulling over the possibilities in his head.

Frodo started to say something else, but coughed instead. This time was not long in duration or harsh in force, but the wheezing intake of air between outbursts concerned the man as he aided the hobbit. "Are you having trouble breathing again?" he asked.

"No, not really," Frodo answered, not meeting Aragorn's eyes.

"Frodo. If something is wrong, you need to tell me," he said sternly.

"It's not that bad," the hobbit meekly contributed. "Not like before..."

Aragorn sighed. "I should not need to drag such information out of you. All right, take a few deep breaths." Frodo did so, and Aragorn leaned in to hear better. After a moment, he sat back up, relieved. "It doesn't sound congested, which is very good."

"Then what's wrong?" Pippin asked on behalf of the other three hobbits.

"I suspect Frodo's activity the past couple of days has irritated his lungs and caused some swelling. So, you" -he returned his attention to the nervously fidgeting Frodo- "need to rest. You *must* behave and do what you're told or you won't fully recover."

Frodo heaved an exasperated sigh, but nodded his consent as he yawned.

"We should let you sleep, then," Aragorn chuckled, the hobbit's yawns and drooping eyelids speaking volumes about how Frodo currently felt. "When you awaken, a bath will be in order, I think; the water's steam should help ease your breathing."

It was not certain if Frodo heard this last, having finally succumbed to the seductive whispers of slumber. Sam crawled over and assisted Aragorn in moving their limp friend from being seated to lying down under the warm bedding. All present then quietly cleaned up the dishes from their repast and left the room so Frodo could sleep in peace.

~~~~

When Frodo finally awoke, the room was dim and darkness lay beyond the window. Soft snores behind him told him the whereabouts of the other hobbits, and he thought he could make out Jael sitting in one of the armchairs before the small fire. Sitting up and yawning, she noticed his movement and came to the chair beside him.

"Ah, so you're awake. That was quite a nap," she said with a smile.

He blushed and rubbed his eyes. "What is the time?"

"Nearly midnight, I should think. Hungry? There's some soup here for you," she informed him as she reached to uncover a bowl sitting upon the small table.

"No, not really. I'm afraid what I ate before isn't sitting well," he said uneasily.

"The King expected such. Don't worry, it's just a simple broth, and there's a roll here as well." Seeing the doubtful look he was giving the bowl, she suggested, "Why don't you have part of the roll to see how it settles, and then after your bath you can have some more if all goes well."

He couldn't argue with the proposal and so dutifully nibbled on the piece of bread she handed him. While he busied himself with that, she went to the door and requested that water be brought for the bath. By the time the bread was gone, hot water had arrived and was steaming in the tub, and Jael was adding some aromatic salts to it.

Frodo slid off the bed and padded over to where his bath sat directly before the fire, and commented, "Smells good."

Jael laughed softly. "It should. And I apologize; the King had intended to be here if you needed any assistance, but he was called away, so I am here instead."

"That is all right," he assured her, taking off his vest and dropping it on the floor. "But if you could, erm, turn around..."

"I shall step into the hall for a few minutes. Will that be enough?"

"Yes, it should be." As soon as she closed the door he quickly finished undressing and stepped carefully into the water, sinking gratefully into its warmth with a sigh of contentment. Closing his eyes, he sat back and immersed himself as far as possible without going under, resting his head on the edge.

"Don't go to sleep, now," Jael cautioned him teasingly as she came back into the room with a couple of towels. "In fact, lean forward a bit. I want to see your back." He complied somewhat grudgingly. "Oh, good," she breathed, running her fingers lightly over the slightly mottled skin. "The bruises are healing nicely. Only some yellow and green areas left. Do they still pain you?"

"I'd completely forgotten about them," Frodo confessed. "So no, not at all."

"All right, I won't interfere with your bath any further," she said, rising and sitting in one of the chairs and resuming work on her mending. Frodo was happy to enjoy his bath for quite some time until the water began to cool and his skin started wrinkling. Then he gestured for a towel and she handed him one before again leaving the room.

By the time he had dried off, gotten dressed in the nightshirt neatly folded on the other armchair, and climbed back into bed, the hobbit was again rather tired and quite ready to sleep some more.

"Not yet," she told him. "Eat the soup and then I'll let you sleep."

He blinked, then replied, "Half."

"All."

"Half, and I'll finish the roll."

"It's a deal," she conceded, quite amused. It did not take Frodo long to consume what he'd bargained for, but before he could lay down again, Jael stopped him. "Wait a moment. Let me dry your hair a bit more so you don't have to sleep on a wet pillow."

"Thank you," he said politely as she began briskly rubbing his head with one of the towels she'd picked up from where he'd dropped them on the floor. Her touch was massagingly gentle in spite of the jerky motions, and Frodo had to restrain himself from complaining when she stopped.

"There, that's better," she said in satisfaction, feeling only traces of moisture on the curls twining about her fingers.

Incapable of coherent speech at that moment, Frodo nodded in agreement and crawled beneath the covers. "G'night," he mumbled.

"Good night, and pleasant dreams," came the whispered reply. The blankets were smoothed over him, and he knew no more.


	18. Life Goes On

"Please tell me that was the last of them," the King's mutter was heard by only his intended audience.

"I'm sorry, the next will be the last, and then the ambassadors from Umbar wish to conclude their business. Apparently they have a time of festival approaching, and would like to return home for the event," Faramir replied in a hushed voice, and he tried unsuccessfully to hide his amusement as the King sighed heavily and yawned.

"Tell me, Steward, will it always be like this?"

"I cannot say. But I doubt there will always be such disturbances on the third level."

"And we have our friend Joram to thank for that. Even in death he causes trouble," Elessar groused.

"But he is gone now, and once repairs are made, we can hope it will not happen again."

Their conversation was cut short when the last six prisoners arrested the night before were brought before the King. "You are here to face charges of disorderly behavior, setting fire to buildings, and attacking soldiers of the King. What say you?"

The sullen men, like Joram before them, made no answer.

"Then I pronounce this doom: you shall labor to repair that which you have damaged, spending your nights in confinement. Once your work is completed, you will spend an additional week in confinement. You will then be free to go about your business, but if you are ever brought before me again, know that I will not be so lenient." He motioned for the guards to come forward. "Take them away."

As the men were escorted out, another soldier approached the throne, bowing as he said, "My lord, there is a woman outside, saying you instructed her to come?"

King Elessar had been in the midst of rising in preparation to go meet the ambassadors from Umbar, but he sat again when the soldier spoke. He was confused for a moment, then remembered the woman from yesterday. "Ah, yes, Joram's wife. Send her in."

The disheveled woman stepped forward timidly and fell to her knees before the King. "M-m' lord," she stammered.

He smiled kindly as he assured her, "You may stand, my lady. I have been told you are -or rather, were- the wife of Joram and have two children by him. Is that correct?"

She nodded as she stood. "Aye, m' lord."

"Have you any means to support yourself and your children?"

"N-no, m' lord. We be livin' wi' me fambly."

The King considered her for a moment, then replied, "Scribe, let a deed be drawn up that gives ownership of Joram's tavern to this woman, his wife. She shall also be given a sum of money with which to purchase the necessaries until she sells the tavern or can open it again for patronage."

The woman again fell to her knees. "Thank ye, m' lord."

~~~~

The concluding negotiations with the representatives from Umbar proceeded more quickly than anticipated, the eagerness of the foreigners to return home making them more amiable and compliant, and by the close of the day all parties were satisfied with the arrangements. When word spread to the other dignitaries of the imminent departure of those from Umbar, they too became anxious to depart for their homelands and insisted upon immediate audiences with the King to finalize their treaties. Yet the King is but one man, and when confronted with so many demands for his presence, he can only do so much. Thus it took several days for him to address the varied concerns brought to his attention, and left almost no time to eat or rest, much less pay a visit to certain halflings dear to his heart.

While the hobbits were overlooked by the King for a time, they were by no means forgotten. Jael continued to attend them, doing her best to adequately amuse the four demanding beings who were quickly growing weary of remaining cooped in the same room. She was always relieved when the wizard or the Steward paid a visit and provided distraction to the small ones, often bringing food as well (which was also more than welcome). Esli called upon them at least once daily, and the elf and dwarf would come by at unpredictable intervals, with tales of their tasks in the repair and improvement of the city.

When nearly a week had passed in this state of affairs, Gandalf brought an unexpected piece of news: he'd picked out a house for the Fellowship to reside in for as long as they remained in the city, and they could relocate there on the morrow. The stream of excited chatter continued long into the night, inquisitive hobbits asking endless questions of the wizard who soon regretted having said anything at all. Finally eyes began to droop and mouths erupted in cavernous yawns, and Gandalf made good his escape as Jael convinced them to go to bed.

The house was a modest two-story affair, set into the wall of the sixth level. It contained a number of bedrooms, though not so many that the hobbits could each have his own, as well as a sizeable kitchen, a sitting room of decent proportions, and a study that Frodo instantly took a liking to. Its window, complete with a window seat that was low enough for a hobbit to use unaided, overlooked the city below and wide fields beyond, the shimmering ribbon of river dancing along the edge of the picturesque view. The room itself, unlike so many in this city of stone, was paneled in a rich wood, with bookshelves set into the walls and thick carpets upon the cool floor. Two armchairs, separated by a sturdy table, were set before the fireplace, and a large desk stood opposite the door.

In his exploration of this room and its contents, Frodo discovered a beautiful set of pens and some paper in a desk drawer. He eagerly picked up one of the wooden instruments, marveling at the gentle curves made to fit comfortably in one's hand and the carefully molded metal nibs in a variety of widths that could be fit into the pen. His hand curled about it in the familiar manner, though the pen was far larger than the quills he was accustomed to. When it failed to come to rest upon his middle finger, instead falling into the gap between his fingers and resting there upon the healing tissue, his face fell as he realized that he could no longer write as before. He hurriedly put the pen back into its place in the tray and slid the drawer shut with a slam, composing himself before leaving the room to find the others.

They were outside in a fenced courtyard alongside the house, containing a slightly overgrown garden, one of the rare gardens to be seen in the crowded city. Sam was delighted by this discovery, and Frodo was grateful for a place he could get some air without having to face the people of the city. When the sun was shining he often took his naps here rather than in his room, and Sam would tend to the weeds -so as not to fall out of practice- while keeping an eye on his master.

Jael continued to look after them, her growing ease with cooking for the hobbits most useful since Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli were often away during the day and, as was to be expected, the kitchen's accoutrements were over the hobbits' heads. She also was one of the few people Frodo would heed in regard to his wellbeing; she, in collaboration with Sam, made sure he rested at least twice in the day and didn't allow him to leave the meal until he'd eaten enough to satisfy them. Mostly thanks to this care -though Frodo would never actually say so- his health slowly improved.

The remaining Fellowship had inhabited the house for about a week before Frodo was again drawn to the desk's drawer and the writing materials inside it. Sam looked on from one of the chairs before the fire, an old gardening text he'd found in the citadel library open upon his lap, but his eyes often strayed from it. Merry and Pippin soon came to watch as well, drawn to the room by the not-so-subtle language being used by their cousin towards the pen, the paper, the ink, the nib, and anything else that particularly vexed him. They were not as discreet as Sam, however, instead standing on the other side of the desk and propping their elbows on the edge, watching Frodo's every move.

For his part, Frodo was not about to admit that he was having trouble grasping how to use the unusual pen. It was too big for his hand, he could not figure out the best way to arrange his fingers upon it, he could not seem to get the ink to draw properly into the tip so all the ink rushed out into a large puddle the instant he brought the edge to the page... it was a most frustrating situation.

And his cousins were not helping. They were making comments about his efforts: a sarcastic remark here, a derogatory comment there, and when added to his already building frustration with himself and the whole situation, they soon pushed him to the edge of his tolerance. "Enough!" he cried finally, casting the pen down in frustration, where it immediately began to make a puddle of ink upon the already spotted page. "If you haven't anything better to do than poke fun at a poor fingerless hobbit, I have something you can do," he said in exasperation, glaring at them as they peered at him in wide-eyed astonishment. He hadn't been this angry at them in quite some time.

Frodo slid down from his stack of books upon the chair -to boost him high enough to reach the desk- and stalked over to the bookshelves where he'd stashed all of his borrowed items from the citadel library. A number of books and folios of papers met his perusal, and he had to pull several out and peer closely at them before he found what he wanted.

"Here," he said, handing one stack to Pippin before retrieving another bunch and shoving it into Merry's hands. "I want you to learn as much as possible from these before we leave. Then you can tell me about these histories once I can actually take notes. Pippin, you have material from Gondor; make sure you learn all of the Stewards' names and their years of leadership. Merry, yours is from Rohan. I want to know all of the kings and their interactions with Gondor or other nations." He crossed his arms and sternly met their surprised looks. "Now go away."

They obeyed mutely, eyeing their armloads with trepidation. Once the door closed behind their retreating backs, Frodo returned to his perch without another word and resumed his attempts.

~~~~

It was mid-afternoon when Gandalf returned to the quiet house. The silence made him instantly suspicious, for while the hobbits can move almost without noise, the only time their voices can't be heard is when something is wrong or they are planning something. Especially these four.

He peered into rooms as he passed, looking for the hobbits, a thin trail of smoke from his lit pipe the only indication of his presence. At length he heard voices, and using them as his guide, found Merry and Pippin in the sitting room, laying on the floor with a spread of books and papers before them.

"There are so many strange names all jumbled together... I can't make any sense of them. Why don't they use longfather trees? It would be much easier if there was a tree," Pippin lamented.

"So make one," Merry suggested irritably. He wasn't getting very far himself and sorely wished Pippin would stop prattling so he could have a chance to think in peace.

Pippin brightened at this idea, but after a moment's thought, he retorted, "The paper is in the study," as if that settled the matter.

Gandalf chose this moment to join the conversation. "What is wrong with the paper being in the study?" he inquired, entering the room and sitting in a chair near the unlit fireplace, his robe brushing the hobbits' feet as he passed.

"Frodo is in the study," Pippin informed him matter-of-factly.

"He's angry at us," Merry added.

"So what have you done to deserve your cousin's ire?" the wizard asked, knowing full well there would be a story behind it.

The pair looked at one another before facing Gandalf with guilty expressions. "He's trying to write again," Merry explained softly, "and we were teasing him about how badly he was doing. We took it a little too far and he got mad, gave us this stuff, and told us to go away."

"He's trying to write, is he?" Gandalf murmured thoughtfully, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "What is that he gave you?"

"Old records and histories of Gondor and Rohan. We're supposed to learn as much as we can to tell him later."

"They're dreadfully dull and there are far too many strange names," Pippin complained.

"I have no doubt, Peregrin Took, that if you can keep your own family history straight, you shall have no trouble with the line of Stewards," the wizard remarked. "Men do not have as many children as is common with hobbits."

"It's still confusing," Pippin grumbled under his breath.

"Perhaps your idea of putting the names into trees has merit. That method of reckoning families never caught on amongst Men, I fear. I think I shall look in on Frodo and see if I can liberate some paper for you," Gandalf said, rising to his feet and moving toward the door, leaving the hobbits to themselves once again.

~~~~

Even after his cousins' departure, Frodo had no better luck in persuading the pen to behave, much less convincing his hand to produce a legible stream of ink across the page. He even tried wrapping his hand around the barrel, much like a toddler would when first presented with such an item, but to no avail. His only progress was in getting the ink to take a little longer to run out of the tip, making a streak instead of a puddle.

Sam still watched in silence, wondering from time to time if he should at least offer to help, but then a muttered oath or a scathing glare directed at the paper or pen would convince him that perhaps it was best to leave Frodo alone.

Finally, with a cry of frustration, Frodo flung the pen across the room and buried his face in his hands. He looked up again when he didn't hear the pen clatter to the floor on the far side of the room, and instead a quiet 'thunk' drifted to his ears. To his surprise, he saw the pen sticking out of the wall, metal nub having dug into the wood paneling, still quivering from the force of the impact. Sam was startled as well, and wondered with some concern what Frodo was going to do next.

A mischievous gleam in his eye, Frodo pulled open the drawer and eyed the other five pens in the set. Working slowly and deliberately, he picked each one up, fitted it with a nib, and let it sail to bury itself in the dark wood, happy that he'd found something the instruments were useful for (since obviously they were useless as far as writing was concerned). He had just let the last one fly when Gandalf opened the door, the pen just barely missing the wizard as it impacted the panel right beside his shoulder.

Gandalf stopped in his tracks and surveyed the wall, not sure if he should be annoyed or amused. Tending more toward the latter, he turned and addressed the embarrassed hobbit. "Writing not going well?" he asked dryly.

"No, not really," Frodo admitted before yawning and scrubbing his face with ink-spotted hands. "Those ...*things* don't work like quills. And they're not exactly hobbit size."

"Indeed. If you're serious about writing again, there are several purveyors of quills and pens in this city. We can find some that would better fit you," Gandalf suggested, coming to the desk to see what Frodo had managed to do.

"Of course I'm serious! I promised Bilbo to bring back news, and any old songs and tales... and I can't possibly remember everything. But all I have so far is a page that looks like it was in a war of ink."

"As do you," Gandalf chuckled. Frodo had ink smudges and smears dotting his face, his hands were almost completely black, and his shirt would likely always bear a number of splatters from the ordeal.

The hobbit seemed to realize this as he looked down at himself and said with a small laugh, "I seem to have made a mess." He climbed down from the chair and stretched before heading for the door. "I'd better go wash up."

"Where is Jael?" Gandalf asked as he followed Frodo into the hallway, with Sam trailing behind.

"I think she's," he yawned, "at market."

"Perhaps you ought to take a nap once you're a little cleaner..."

~~~~

The outing in search of the proper sized quills commenced the next day, so after second breakfast, Gandalf, Frodo, and Sam set out for the fourth level. Merry and Pippin had pleaded to come along as well, but given that Frodo was still rather annoyed with them, the wizard did not think it wise and advised them to tour the city with Gimli and Legolas if they wanted to leave the house (given recent events, he did also not think it wise for any of the hobbits wander the city unaccompanied by one of the Bigger Folk).

The nearest quill seller was on the fourth level, and at first Gandalf insisted that they take a cart so the hobbits wouldn't have to walk the whole way; his concern was mostly for Frodo, though he didn't say so, knowing what the result of that would be. Frodo would have none of it and insisted on walking, saying he needed the exercise to help him recover. It would have been a standoff but for Sam's suggestion that if they walked, then Frodo would simply have to allow Gandalf to carry him if he grew tired. Frodo was reluctant, but once the wizard made it clear it was either that or the cart, he agreed and the three set off.

It did not take long for them to reach the small shop, most of the way being downhill after all, and upon recognizing the three, the proprietor was most eager to please. Frodo was fascinated by all of the different quills and pens and inks, and could have happily spent several hours poring over the variety of wares, but the stale air of the shop did not agree with him and spurred several coughing spells that quickly persuaded Gandalf to make their trip as short as possible. The shopkeeper proved most capable, recommending several types of quills and suggesting a few methods to figure out the most comfortable way to hold the implement in spite of Frodo's missing finger. He also provided a pen knife small enough for the hobbits to use with ease, allowing them to try several ones out until they found the one that worked the best.

As the man wrapped up the quills, knife, and a pot of ink he'd given them without charge, Gandalf prepared to pay him, and Frodo and Sam browsed through the boxes and displays of elaborate pens. Some looked like quills but used the same nibs as a pen; others were carved from wood and decorated with inlays of gold and silver and a pearly-colored substance. The nibs were also made from a number of materials; some looked like wood, others metal, and then there were some that were a pale white color that neither of them had seen before. "Tha' be iv'ry," the shopkeeper put in, having come over upon the completion of his business with Gandalf. "From them tusks." He demonstrated by hanging a few fingers by his mouth.

"From oliphaunts?" Sam asked, wide-eyed.

"Aye. I been sending away fer these, and right pricey too, but wi' them dead un's outside, I be makin' meself a fortune! Soon I'll have iv'ry pens and iv'ry nibs and iv'ry..."

"We must be going," Gandalf interrupted the man, to Sam's relief. He didn't relish learning all the uses for the tusk of an oliphaunt, though he wondered who first thought of using such things for such purposes, anyhow. Frodo had been listening with one ear to the conversation as he coughed again; Gandalf had him step outside into the better air while he rescued Samwise from the garrulous proprietor.

Bidding the man farewell -though Sam felt rather sorry for him, having no more customers to talk to- they turned their steps back the way they came, walking for a time in silence.

"The first time I go anywhere since all this happened, and it's cut short," Frodo grumbled.

Gandalf looked down at him. "Would you rather you hadn't gone at all?" he prodded him gently.

"And why do the gates between levels have to be at the very opposite ends of the level?" the hobbit continued. "It takes ever so long to get anywhere."

"It's a very good defense, as Pippin can likely tell you," the wizard countered.

Frodo sighed, then coughed, so they halted until it ceased and Frodo could continue. "And why is any return trip always uphill?"

Gandalf stopped and crouched in front of the complaining hobbit. "Frodo, are you tired?"

"Yes... I mean, no! I'm perfectly all right."

"You know I know you better than that, my dear hobbit. Now come, let me carry you."

Frodo opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking to Sam for support. But Sam had been about to ask Gandalf if he shouldn't carry Mr. Frodo now, so Frodo found no sympathy there. "All right," he grudgingly accepted. Once Gandalf picked him up and the three continued on, he admitted, "I feel like such a child, needing to be carried about and taking naps and..."

"No one here sees you as a child, Frodo. Just look around you," Gandalf directed with a motion of his hand toward the people of the city nearby. Then Frodo noticed they were bowing as the trio passed. "They honor what you have done, Frodo. They certainly see no child, just a brave halfling who is recovering from ill treatment."

"Brave? Hardly what I'd call it."

"Nevertheless, the statement remains."

Frodo said nothing further, instead lapsing into thought. By the time the house came into view, he was dozing in Gandalf's arms. The wizard carried the hobbit to his bed, gently prying the wrapped package from clinging fingers before laying him down. Eyebrows quirked as the sleeper felt the change, but smoothed out again as he shifted and lapsed further into slumber with a sigh.

~~~~

The next day Frodo resumed his attempts, but this time he had not the excuse of foreign implements to explain his difficulty. Ink flowed as it should, the quill fit his hand much better, but it was as if he had forgotten everything he ever knew about writing the simplest things. Sam was watching him silently, peering over the edge of the desk while standing on his tiptoes, so Frodo addressed him. "Why isn't this working?"

Sam looked at the paper thoughtfully and answered slowly, "Maybe it needs to be reminded how it's supposed to go."

"Reminded?"

"Aye." Sam came to the other side of the desk and stood on one of the chair rungs, reached out and, putting his hand atop his master's, guided him to form an uneven but legible letter. "Like that."

Frodo looked at it, and then at Sam, and said, "Come up here and sit with me?" So both hobbits knelt on the chair, Frodo slowly and painstakingly tracing the letters Sam helped him form before trying his own, and Sam providing guidance and suggestions when needed. It was how Bilbo taught each of them and they remembered it, but neither spoke of it.

Both curly heads were bent over their work when Jael peered in, curious about what they were doing. She came in the room, but was momentarily distracted by the map next to the door, pinned to the wall with... were those pens? Indeed, they look to be the pens... She concluded that hobbits could be quite inventive.

Jael drew near to the desk, looking at the books and papers before peering at Frodo's writing. "Does it say anything?" she asked, unable to make heads nor tails of the markings.

"No, they're just letters," Frodo replied. Then he whispered a question to Sam, who shook his head and shrugged. Frodo slid off the chair and went to the bookshelf, pulled off a rather weighty tome, and returned to the desk with it. He handed it up to Sam and climbed back on the chair. As he flipped through the dusty pages, he commented, "I didn't think I'd actually use this book. I just thought it looked interesting."

"What is it?" Jael wanted to know.

"An old book of names. I'm hoping it'll tell me how to spell yours..." he replied, turning pages more slowly as he neared what he wanted. "'Jael'...'J'... ah, here it is!" His eyebrows raised as he read the entry. "I warrant you didn't know your name is from a word for a female goat," he said with some amusement.

Jael laughed. "I did not, though I'm sure my brother would've believed it. He always said I was quite obstinate."

Frodo had pushed aside the book while she was talking and was slowly writing on a new leaf of paper. "There. Jael."

He handed her the paper, which she looked at with awe. "That's my name?"

"It is."

"What about 'Esli'?" she asked, giving back the paper.

"Hm, let's see..." he turned again to the book. "'Esli' isn't listed... but it seems easy enough..." He again bent to work, then handed Jael the result. "Esli."

She looked at it carefully, trying to memorize the curves of the lines so she could recognize it if she ever saw it again. "What about the two of you?"

Frodo's writing was a bit more confident now, as he spelled out the familiar names. "'Frodo Baggins' and 'Samwise Gamgee'," he said, handing the paper back again.

"What do they mean?"

"I... I don't remember," Frodo replied after a moment's puzzled thought. "Sam, did Bilbo ever talk about our names?"

"He did," the gardener answered, "but it were a long time ago... I think mine's half-wise, and yours is... wise, or learned, or some such thing."

"I see," she said, glancing at them and then back at the paper.

Frodo watched as Jael looked at the new words, then realized something. "You don't know how to read, do you," he murmured, but it wasn't a question. "You've got the paper upside-down."

Jael blushed as she righted the sheet, and admitted, "No, I cannot read."

"Would you like us to teach you?"

She slowly put the page down as she regarded them in amazement. "You... you would do that?" she whispered.

"Of course! It's the least we can do for all you've done for us... for me."

Jael swallowed and looked down at the list of names, just groups of random marks now, but that held the promise of being understood... "I would like that very much," she ventured with an uncertain smile.

Both hobbits returned the smile. "Then let's begin," Frodo said briskly. "We'll need to find another chair..."

~~~~

It soon became quite typical to find the two hobbits and one woman all huddled over the desk in the study, Frodo writing, Jael reading, and Sam leading them both, much to his discomfort. The Steward had paid the house a visit not long after Jael began learning to read, and at Frodo's request he located a few beginning primers that had been packed away after he and his brother had mastered them.

Jael learned quickly, though she felt it forever before she could recognize even the simplest of words. It did not take long for Frodo to be able to write with some alacrity, his hand finally adjusting and compensating for what was lost until the strokes closely resembled his handwriting of old (though still rather messier than before, which he daily laboured to correct).

A day soon came when all of the foreign embassies had departed and all other business was for the moment settled, and the King finally could stroll down to the sixth level to call on his friends. Aragorn's visit lasted long into the night as the Companions reveled in being in one another's company without the stiffness of behaviour required at formal feasts.

He came more often after that. One day the conversation strayed to when they would all be able to leave and return to their respective homes, to which Aragorn replied, "At last all such things must end, but I would have you wait a little while longer: for the end of the deeds that you have shared in has not yet come. A day draws near that I have looked for in all the years of my manhood, and when it comes I would have my friends beside me." But of that day he would say no more.

Later Frodo asked Gandalf, "Do you know what this day is that Aragorn speaks of? For we are happy here, and I don't wish to go; but the days are running away, and Bilbo is waiting; and the Shire is my home."

"As for Bilbo," said Gandalf, "he is waiting for the same day, and he knows what keeps you. As for the passing of the days, it is now only May and high summer is not yet in; and though all things may seem changed, as if an age of the world had gone by, yet to the trees and the grass it is less than a year since you set out. And Aragorn himself waits for a sign."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last three paragraphs from the chapter are taken directly (with a few modifications) from RotK, "The Steward and the King," p. 949 in my copy (Houghton Mifflin paperback).
> 
> I found myself doing some considerable research for this chapter, having known basically nothing about quills and other such things. Name research was done at <http://www.behindthename.com>. For anyone who's interested, Tolkien says in Letter 168 that Frodo's name basically means "wise by experience" (a reference I found via the Encyclopedia of Arda: <http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/>).
> 
> Information about quills and pens; some of which I found fascinating (though I ended up not using much of it, but it helped get the general idea of things):  
> <http://www.flick.com/~liralen/quills/quills.html>  
> <http://www.regia.org/quills.htm>  
> <http://medievalwriting.50megs.com/tools/quill.htm>


	19. Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has passed, and it is time for the hobbits to finally leave for the Shire.

"No."

"But--"

"No."

"It's the wedding feast! You have to."

"No."

"What will people think if the Ringbearer doesn't toast the King and his new Queen?"

"I can toast them perfectly well with water," he insisted, clutching his pewter goblet close to himself, protectively guarding it from the pitchers and flagons his cousins brandished.

"Just one glass. That's all, I promise," Pippin wheedled.

"No! That's what you said *last* time, Peregrin Took. 'It'll do you some good,' you said. Ha! We all know what happened after that."

"What happened?" Merry asked cautiously, exchanging a glance with Pippin.

"*Joram* happened," he said angrily, his voice a little too loud and beginning to draw the attention of the other guests.

Sam heard the raised voices even from across the large pavilion, and he hurried his steps as he tried to return to his master's side. Under any other circumstances, being in the company of this many elves would have him awestruck, for it seemed both Rivendell and Lothlorien had been emptied for the grand event. But now he was getting impatient with how many of the tall beings he had to push his way past. Fortunately, most did not seem to notice his rudeness.

The argument was continuing, and he wondered at the fact that all it took was for him to go to the privy for those miscreants to upset Frodo. Just before he gained sight of them the voices stopped, and for a moment he feared something had happened, but then he saw Jael crouching next to them, speaking calmly. A sight she was, and had she not ridden down to the field with them, he would not have recognized her. Her straight hair was unloosed and flowed endlessly down her back, kept from her face by but a delicate headband. And her dress was quite different from usual, a deep green that was fitted in such a way as to make it undeniable that she was most certainly a woman, and an attractive one at that.

Of course, they were all in their finest, and he looked down at himself somewhat ruefully. In the midsummer heat his clothes had acquired a rather limp appearance; at least the sun had set and the lamps scattered throughout the pavilion cast things in a more complementary light. He was uncomfortable in the finery given him, and looked forward to being able to shed it at last.

He came within earshot of the others to catch the end of the conversation. "-you should not push him," Jael was scolding.

"No, no, it is all right," Frodo interjected. "I... overreacted a bit, I'm afraid. It has been a long day."

"Aye, it has," Sam agreed, approaching the small circle.

Jael nodded slightly at him, reassuring him that all was well, before saying, "If you were to sit at one of the tables along the side, I'm sure you could step out once the toasting is complete. The feasting and celebrating is likely to go long into the night, if elves are anything like Men."

"Or hobbits," Pippin added with a wink at Merry.

They had just settled at a table very close to the front but off to one side when the guests of honor arrived. All parted to allow the majestic King and his radiant Queen passage to the head table. Lord Elrond, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, and Gandalf followed at a respectful distance; all were a most impressive company. The hobbits stood on their chairs and gawked, enthralled by the beauty of the elven women. Sam blushed as he saw Galadriel glance in their direction, feeling again as if he hadn't got any clothes on under her gaze.

Legolas and Gimli also joined the hobbits when all claimed a seat, both because they felt more comfortable around those they knew, and because Gimli preferred being close to those of similar height, since they all felt quite short in the company of so many tall folk. The toasts were a long procedure, and as they finally began to wind down Frodo was quite thankful he'd passed up on alcohol, for his cousins were already looking rather tipsy. Finally there came the last toast to the new Queen's health and beauty, and all could at long last let their glasses come to rest upon the table.

More food was served, and the two mischievous cousins decided now was a good time to provide their own entertainment, much to Frodo's chagrin. He tried in vain to get them off the table, as the coolly aloof elves were beginning to stare in what could only be interpreted as disdain. The pair wouldn't budge, so Frodo took this opportunity to slip out unnoticed. Sam accompanied him, and once outside the oppressive air of the tent both heaved a sigh of relief. It was a cool, clear night, and the stars shone brightly as if in blessing of the celebrations below. Frodo yawned, and Sam asked, "What now?"

Frodo looked at him blearily. "What do you mean?"

Sam gestured helplessly. "Where are we going? We can't go all the way back into the city by ourselves."

"Oh..." Frodo frowned. "I don't know."

The unexpected arrival of Faramir solved their quandary. "You are looking to rest, I presume?" his voice came from behind Frodo and the sleepy hobbit jumped, nearly stumbling in his surprise. Sam stepped to his aid as the Man continued, "I've been instructed to take you to a small tent set up for your use."

He led them slowly, as if remembering to take into account their shorter strides and weariness. Sam was disturbed to see that Frodo was stumbling in exhaustion almost as much as his master's cousins had been staggering in their inebriation. He was relieved he'd followed Frodo's lead and drunk only water, for he knew he'd be of no use to Frodo as tipsy as the other two.

They soon arrived at a slightly shorter tent that was set off a bit from the main path. Several lamps hung inside, illuminating a row of four low beds. Once Sam assured him they would be fine, and no, they didn't need anything, the Steward left. Frodo sagged onto one of the beds furthest from the door opening, already unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Why didn't Bilbo come, Sam?" he asked abruptly.

"I don' rightly know, sir," he replied honestly. "Mayhap the trip was too long for him, gettin' as old as he is."

Frodo sighed. "Maybe, but I had been dearly hoping to see him. I miss him," he added plaintively.

"As do I, sir," Sam answered, unsure what else to say. A realization dawned on him, and he felt his stomach sink. What if the old hobbit had died in their absence? Would Lord Elrond have told them by now, or would he choose to wait and not cast a shadow on the festivities? He looked worriedly at Frodo's back as his master laid down and wondered if any of these thoughts had occurred to him as well. He dearly hoped not.

As he took off his own waistcoat and shirt to slide underneath the sheet of his own bed, he found himself wondering what if Bilbo *had* died... it would surely be a sore blow to Frodo, and the others as well. He tried not to think further along that line of speculation, instead blowing out the lamp above them, bidding his master a good night, and directing his thoughts toward beautiful females as he drifted to sleep.

~~~~

The modest celebration continued for four days before the demands of a kingdom required the King's return. Even then the singing and instrumental melodies remained, and it was said for many years after that if you listened closely to the wind on a clear summer's eve, you could still hear the music of the elves.

While Merry and Pippin were somewhat dismayed that the festivities consisted mostly of song and tales, with only a passing thought given to food and drink, they enjoyed what they were given, in the form of miruvor and any number of elven delicacies, including lembas. Sam did not take any, but Frodo persuaded Merry to give him a piece of his, just to try it again.

He ventured a small bite, and his suspicions soon proved correct. The lembas tasted as it always had, and there was nothing troublesome in that, but the familiar taste revived memories of not so distant times when he'd had to rely on it as his only source of food. The recollections were not pleasant, and he hastily returned the remaining piece to his cousin's heaped plate while hurriedly swallowing what little was in his mouth. He would not be able to eat lembas for a long time yet.

After they had spent a week in the elves' company, the hobbits resumed their residence of the small house on the sixth level. All were longing for their normal beds (well, as 'normal' as one's bed in a strange city hundreds of miles from home can be), and Frodo especially was growing weary of continually being in the company of strangers and thus needing to maintain a polite and gracious attitude. So they went back, accompanied by Gandalf, and more or less settled back into how things used to be.

~~~~

Jael stood silently in the doorway for a moment, gauging whether the hobbit was sleeping where he was sitting curled up on the window seat. He sighed and shifted, rearranging his legs, and resumed his wordless watch of the scene before him without ever turning in her direction. He likely hadn't even noticed her presence, and briefly she considered leaving him to himself. But she had volunteered to find him, so she approached him instead.

"It's a lovely view," she said by way of warning as she came up from behind him and sat opposite him on the window seat.

"It is," he agreed absently, his eyes never moving from the studious examination of the windowpane and what lay beyond.

"May I ask why you are in here?" He had told Sam he would be outside in a moment; he just needed to fetch a book. That moment had stretched to nigh on half an hour, and her approach of the house had found a gardener beginning to become worried, so she'd offered to find Frodo, so Sam wouldn't have to take the time to wash up before entering the house, and so she would have an opportunity to speak candidly with him. He'd been abnormally quiet in the week the hobbits had been back, and she'd been wanting to ask him about it. "Frodo?"

Finally he turned to look at her and shrugged. "I was distracted," he said defensively, motioning toward the window.

She looked out a moment, taking in the bright summer day, her eyes also drawn to the elven pavilions just at the edge of sight, the fabric billowing and the pennants snapping smartly in the breeze from the river. "That is easily understood," she allowed. "But that's not the only thing on your mind, is it?"

As if her question had hit a nerve, he quickly turned his gaze back to the window. At length, he admitted, "I wish Bilbo had come."

"Your cousin?"

"Yes." His expression softened a bit as he thought about the dear old hobbit. "Since he didn't come, I'm realizing how much I miss him." He added in a whisper, "I want to go home."

She was silent for a moment. How well she understood that feeling! But she was not sure she had the words with which to comfort him. "Have you talked to anyone about going home?" she asked finally.

"No," he answered shortly. "How could I? We had just recently arrived here when everything happened, and now that it's over, Ar- the King has just gotten married and I..." he trailed off, gesturing helplessly before curling even further into himself, hugging his knees closer to his chest and resting his chin upon them as he continued to stare fixedly outside.

"Ah, but surely the King will understand your desire to return to your home! The celebrations for the wedding have ended and you are recovering well; I see no reason why you cannot now bring that request before the King and your companions." She paused, and then pressed, "Is this why you have been so quiet of late? Your thoughts have turned to your home?"

He did not answer for a time. Then, "I suppose it is."

She waited for him to elaborate, and when he did not, she prodded, "But?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's hard to explain."

Jael looked at him closely, and decided to let the matter drop. She spoke as she stood. "I will go tell Sam that you're all right. And do consider asking the King about leaving. You should know by now he would not refuse you anything."

~~~~

All told, it was over a week before Frodo gathered up the courage to approach Aragorn on the subject. It was late afternoon when he found the King and Queen in the garden. Arwen was singing of Valinor as they sat beside the fountain, and the growing white tree basked in the droplets of water and the voice of unspeakable beauty. As Frodo ventured into the garden, the singing met his ears and began to melt his resolve, and he was tempted to turn around and forget the whole thing. But he'd been seen, and they rose to greet him.

Aragorn anticipated his request and spoke first. "I know what you have come to say, Frodo: you wish to return to your own home."

"It is true that I wish to go back to the Shire," said Frodo. "But first I must go to Rivendell and see Bilbo. I beg leave to depart soon."

"In seven days we will go," said Aragorn. "For we shall ride with you far on the road, even as far as the country of Rohan. In three days now Eomer will return hither to bear Theoden back to rest in the Mark, and we shall ride with him to honour the fallen. And if there were any gifts that I could give to match with your deeds you should have them; but whatever you desire you shall take with you, and you shall ride in honour and arrayed as princes of the land."

But the Queen Arwen said: "A gift I will give you. In my stead you shall go to the Havens, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed. But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven!"

And she took a white gem like a star that lay upon her breast hanging upon a silver chain, and she set the chain about Frodo's neck. "When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you," she said, "this will bring you aid."

He looked down wonderingly at it, one hand absently toying with the unusual gem. "Thank you," he murmured.

They sat in silence for a while, and Frodo gathered his wits about him again to broach a different matter. Arwen seemed to realize this and inquired, "What troubles you so?"

He opened his mouth to speak and, finding no words, closed it again. This occurred several times before he stammered, "I... I would like to... to give something to... to the lady Jael. But I haven't anything to give." His last words tumbled out in a rush.

"What sort of gift did you intend?" Aragorn asked.

Frodo shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

"Think on it, then. You have several days yet to decide."

~~~~

Frodo couldn't concentrate at all on the plate in front of him. He was too nervous. Aimlessly pushing bits of meat and vegetables around with his fork, he looked across the table at Jael, who was at the moment completely absorbed in the business of eating. Esli sat next to her, and when he noticed Frodo's wandering glance, he winked at the hobbit. The wink was answered by a small smile, and Frodo's gaze moved on, gradually alighting on each person at the King's table, and eventually returned to his deplorably full plate.

He sighed, spearing a few small bits and slowly chewing them. The entire meal was a ruse, simply to provide an excuse for Jael to come to the Citadel, and when it was over, he would find out if the gift he'd settled on would be well received. It took him much thought, a long conversation with Sam, and even a consultation with Esli before he made up his mind, but even at these last moments he wasn't sure how she was going to react. He hoped she'd be pleased, but the anxiety of not knowing was tying his stomach in knots.

Frodo was so absorbed in thought that when Jael addressed him, he nearly choked in surprise and had to gulp some of his tea to clear his throat. "Are you all right?" she asked, voicing the concern of all present.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I was just... startled," he said dismissively. "And I'm sorry, what did you say before?"

"I asked what you were thinking about that had you so serious," she said lightly, amusement evident in her tone.

"I was thinking about leaving in a few days," he answered. In truth, thoughts of their rapidly approaching departure were not far from his mind, but he dared not admit what had really been occupying his attention, for fear of ruining the surprise.

"I see." Jael quickly dropped her eyes before he could read her expression and stared at her own plate. She had already known Frodo and the others were anxious to leave, but the reality of having to say farewell in just five short days was only now beginning to sink in. She was going to miss them terribly when they were gone. With their departure it seemed all her life's purpose was leaving as well, as they would no longer need her to cook and care for them, and the reading lessons she had come to enjoy would end.

It was true there had been those days when the hobbits stayed below the city for the wedding merrymaking and she had elected to return home, spending some very welcome time alone with her husband, but that was different. Then it was only a temporary break; this upcoming separation would be permanent. And she would miss the hobbits desperately. Their cheery natures and enthusiasm for life were a welcome change to the dreary existence that was so typical in the city.

She swallowed thickly and pushed those thoughts aside. Better to enjoy these last few days than spend them in the gloom of misery. But still... it was difficult to completely banish those thoughts, and they made her stomach churn.

At long last, or so it seemed to Frodo, the meal came to an end, and Aragorn suggested that the hobbits and Jael and Esli join him and Arwen in a quiet sitting room for a smoke and some conversation. Jael tried to protest her inclusion in the company of such 'high folk' but the King would have none of it and ensured that she and Esli walked right behind him and Arwen, while the hobbits trailed after. Frodo hung back a bit, both looking forward to and dreading the coming moment.

The chairs were arranged around the fireplace, which remained unlit in consideration of the heat, so the room was pleasantly cool in spite of the numerous candles and torches scattered along the walls for light. Aragorn seated himself and Arwen at one end of the semi-circle, and Esli led Jael to the chair next to the Queen, as arranged.

For her part, Jael remained oblivious to everything until her husband nudged her and urged her to sit down. It was then that she finally noticed the small silver harp upon the seat. Her eyes widened and she gasped, glancing at the King and Queen to see if this was just some misunderstanding. But they were smiling at her, so she turned back to the chair in confusion. "What is this?" she asked, her voice sounding choked and unnatural to her ears.

The tone of her voice made Frodo's heart sink in dread, and it did not stop until it had splattered all over the tops of his furry feet. "It- it is a gift," he forced himself to say as he stepped toward her. "It is my fault if you do not like it-"

He was cut off when she knelt in front of him and enveloped him in an embrace. "No! No, that's not it at all," she quickly reassured him. When she withdrew, he could see tears on her cheeks, but she was also smiling. "It's- it's wonderful," she continued. "I don't know what to say to thank you."

"Why don't you play it?" Pippin suggested.

"Oh, I couldn't," she said in awe as she again surveyed the instrument perched on the cushion. "Not yet. It's been much too long since I've ever touched a harp."

"You could at least pick it up," Frodo teased, having regained his voice once his heart returned to its former place.

Jael gingerly picked it up, as if afraid it would shatter or melt, and swiftly sat down, cradling the harp in her lap. A conversation began and went on around her, something about a white tree and where it came from, but she paid it no heed as her focus was solely upon the delicate instrument. It was of elven make, of that she was certain, and she wondered where they had gotten it. Her fingers brushed lightly over the strings, instinctively picking out the notes of a song she used to know.

Frodo listened with interest as Aragorn told of finding the White Tree, but watched Jael as he did so. She was completely enthralled, and it pleased him greatly that the gift was so well-received, since he'd been so uncertain of whether she'd appreciate the reminder of her life before reaching the city. The faint notes Jael drew from the harp were haunting, and seemed almost elvish in their lamenting quality. The melody seemed almost familiar, like something he'd heard in Rivendell or Lothlorien...

Jael's fingers faltered for what seemed the hundredth time, and she was surprised to hear a voice humming the melody to fill in the gap. She looked up to see the Queen smiling at her. "My Lady?" she questioned the elf.

"You know the Lay of the Mariner," Arwen said quietly, not loudly enough to interrupt the other conversation.

"I did," Jael admitted, blushing as she looked down at her hands. "I'm making quite a mess of it, I'm afraid."

"You are doing well; you have been well-taught," the other assured her gently. "Allow your mind to go free and you will remember."

Jael tried again, but again faltered as everyone turned their attention to her. The Queen touched her arm reassuringly, so she started over. After a moment, and with a smile at Aragorn, Arwen began to sing.

~~~~

The intervening days between that night and the night before the group was to leave passed more quickly than Jael would have liked, and even for the hobbits time flew by. All too soon preparations were made, carts and packs were loaded, the elven tents began disappearing one by one, and the city was silent in anticipation as night fell and the final arrangements were settled for the morning's departure. The weather also seemed to be holding its breath, for not a wisp of breeze stirred the brooding air as it hung thickly over the city.

The next morning dawned warm and bright as a number of folks scurried hither and thither to prepare the King and his party, piling goods onto carts and readying horses as soon as it was light. Jael and Esli were at the house early, Jael preparing breakfast and Esli assisting with loading the hobbits' meagre belongings and any other things that needed doing. The hobbits rose at first light, despite not having gotten much sleep due to the oppressive heat, and were quickly ready for the journey, Merry and Pippin in their respective liveries, and Frodo and Sam in their lightest and most comfortable clothes.

It was with great reluctance that the inhabitants of the house finished eating and cleaned up after themselves. Finally they went out to the main street where their ponies were waiting. Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli had gone up to the Citadel to honor Theoden as his body was brought forth from the tombs in Rath Dinen, leaving the hobbits to say their farewells to Jael. An awkward silence ensued, the chattering of people as they passed and the ponies' shuffling and snuffling the only interruptions.

"I guess this is good-bye, then," Merry said finally.

"Aye," Jael answered hesitantly. She knelt to better look them in the eye, and briefly embraced first Merry, then Pippin. Sam was next, and he mumbled his thanks as he hurriedly hugged her as well, and then stepped back, blushing.

Frodo hung back until the other three had finished. Then Jael was holding him tightly, murmuring softly into his ear. The other hobbits did not see Frodo's face as he said farewell, for his back was to them, but they did see Jael, and she was weeping. What words passed between them, Frodo never told.

By the time they broke the embrace, the funeral procession was approaching, and all were silent in respect for the fallen king. Jael hurriedly reached into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt, and pressed a small, smooth object into Frodo's palm. It was a coiled shell, in iridescent shades of pearl and pink. "May you one day see the Sea for yourself," she whispered.

Before he could react, the procession was passing by, and the hobbits had to fall into line, walking as they lead their ponies. Jael was waving at them when Frodo turned to look back and he clumsily waved back, not wanting to drop the small treasure she had given him. All too soon she was lost to view in the crowds of people, and Frodo had to focus on the road ahead. If anyone had seen a few tears snake down his cheeks, they would have thought nothing of it. It was a funeral procession, after all.

  
And so it was the great and fair company of men and elves and hobbits rode north from the city of Minas Tirith, bound for Edoras and the lands beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between Aragorn, Arwen, and Frodo by the Tree is taken and paraphrased a bit from Book 6, Chapter 6, "Many Partings."


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the journey ends...

"Frodo!"

"Oh, Frodo!"

"Where is that old cousin of ours?"

The loud voices echoed down the hall and Frodo smiled to himself as he finished the sentence before putting the quill and book away. He rose and leaned casually against the study's doorframe, crossing his arms as Merry and Pippin came into view. "I'm not deaf, you know," he said saucily, raising an eyebrow at them.

"Ah, yes, but you could be napping in your frailty," Merry teased.

"Naps are very refreshing and help clear the mind," Frodo retorted defensively.

"Because you've accumulated so many cobwebs in your long years," Pippin laughed.

"It's a good thing the babe is awake already or you rascals would 'ave her screaming in fright," scolded Rosie from behind the pair as she came out of Elanor's room, carrying the cooing baby.

"Apologies, mistress Rose," the two chorused, with an exaggerated bow to her.

"Oh go on, you two," she said. "There's tea and biscuits in the kitchen if ye're interested." Of course they were interested, so all trooped to the kitchen with Merry and Pippin leading the way.

The lively banter continued as the hobbits had tea, with Sam even coming in from the garden for small talk. The biscuits had all been eaten and all the tea nearly drunk when Merry abruptly pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket and said, "I almost forgot. Here, Frodo, you have mail from Gondor."

Frodo accepted the folded parchment, looking at it curiously. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but it was addressed to 'Mr. Frodo Baggins, Crickhollow, The Shire.' "When did it arrive?" he asked, carefully breaking the seal.

"Three days before we left," Merry replied.

Frodo unfolded the pages, a blank one for the outside to protect the rest, and another two covered in a childish scrawl. A smaller piece tumbled in his lap as well, and he held it thoughtfully as he looked for the sender's name.

"It's from Jael," he said finally, with some surprise, and then his eyes returned to the salutation. 'Dearest Frodo, I hope this letter finds you well,' it began, and he skimmed it quickly to find anything he could tell the others, who were watching him expectantly.

"She sends greetings to all of you... They are doing well -Esli is highly respected amongst the Guards, and Aragorn has had Jael sing as a minstrel at several banquets." He paused, reading further, and then continued with a small smile, "They recently had a child -a boy- and named him Maura..."

He trailed off again, and looked at the smaller piece of parchment, to which a lock of hair was affixed with a lump of wax. "She's sent a bit of his hair," he explained as he put it on the table for the others to see. "And that's about it," he finished.

There were other bits of news included that Frodo didn't think would be of interest to the others, so he did not mention them, though he would naturally respond to them in his reply.

He refolded the letter and tucked it into his inside vest pocket. "I'll have a letter ready to go with you when you leave," he told Merry, and the conversation soon turned to other matters of importance, like what was for dinner.

~~~~

Later that evening, Frodo again sat alone in the study, contemplating what to write back to Jael. Merry and Pippin had gone to the Inn for the night -he wasn’t sure who was more relieved: Rosie, for not having to clean up rooms for them (and clean up after them), or Merry and Pippin, for not having their sleep interrupted by a crying babe- though before leaving they wrangled a promise from Frodo and Sam to meet them in the Green Dragon for luncheon tomorrow.

He would need to retire soon if he was to be fully awake and alert by luncheon -and spending time with Merry and Pippin always required one to be fully awake and alert- for little Elanor cried often during the night and invariably woke him no matter how quickly Sam or Rosie moved to hush the two-month-old’s wailings. But he wanted to get this reply written, or he knew he’d forget.

So he set to reading Jael’s remarks again, more carefully this time, to determine what sort of news to send in return.

 _6 October 3020_

 _Dearest Frodo,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well, and Sam, Merry, and Pippin, too. I trust your journey home was a pleasant one. Esli and I send greetings to you all. I’m happy to say we are doing well; Esli is held in high esteem by the other guards and has been honored for his devotion to duty by the King himself. Your gift has been put to good use, for the King has had me perform as a minstrel at several banquets. I must thank you again, because I have greatly enjoyed playing again, even though accompanying the Queen can be quite intimidating._

 _I’ve had much time to practice my playing as well as my writing, as I have spent a while abed at the King’s orders. I’m afraid I was not a very good patient, though the King assured me he’s seen worse, in the form of a small and stubborn hobbit. I don’t suppose you know who he’s referring to? But despite my fretting, I would gladly endure it all over again, for Esli and I became the parents of a beautiful son this March past. His name is Maura, and he has been an exceptionally agreeable child. We suspect he may be joined by a sibling sooner rather than later, but that has not been determined for certain. He is sleeping in my arms as I write this, so I apologize if my handwriting is particularly bad. I have included a bit of his hair, as a token that you are continually in our thoughts._

 _I write to you now to send tidings before preparations for our upcoming journey chased all thoughts of it from my mind. Esli and I have been chosen to go with a group representing the King to the Dol Amroth region. I do not know how long we are to stay, but I dearly hope to have the time to seek out my home village and look upon the Sea from there once more._

 _I don't know how long it will take for this letter to reach you, but if your response reaches the city while we are away, the King himself has promised to keep it safe until our return. He says he promises not to be like Butterbur in caring for the letter. I haven't any idea what he's talking about, so I hope you do. I greatly wish that you would write back, even if only so I can know you're all right. And how fares the cousin you spoke so fondly of? Bilbo, was it?_

 _Lest I begin rambling again, I will bring this letter to a close and say only this: though we will likely never meet again, I want you to know you are often in my thoughts, and I sincerely hope you have found in your homecoming the comfort you sought._

 _May the winds blow softly upon you and the waves roll gently at your feet,_

 _Jael_

As Frodo read, his hand strayed to his pocket and brought out the small shell she'd given him, his thumb feeling the small grooves thoughtfully. He swallowed thickly upon finishing the letter, then put it and the shell down before pulling out a fresh piece of paper and beginning to write.

The quill scratched quickly and easily along for a good portion of the page, then faltered as Frodo frowned in consideration. There was no easy way to say what he wanted to say, but he didn't think it fair to Jael to leave the matter unmentioned. The crack and pop of the fire as the logs broke and settled into mere glowing embers both startled him and made him mindful of the time. Perhaps it would be better to think on it and finish tomorrow... Making up his mind to finish later, he headed to bed to snatch what few hours of uninterrupted sleep he could gain before Elanor awoke.

A fortnight hence, on the morning of Merry and Pippin's departure, Frodo entrusted them with his reply to Jael, neatly folded and sealed, and made them solemnly swear not to read it. They agreed without comment, though later on the road back to Crickhollow they speculated on why their cousin felt the need to extract such a promise. After all, if it were a letter to a pretty lass, they would need to ascertain the extent of the relationship, but why would they bother to pry into correspondence with Jael?

~~~~

It was nearly the last day of September when Esli and Jael returned to Minas Tirith. The King and much of the court turned out to welcome back the party, and Elessar took Jael aside as soon as he could to give her the letter that had arrived about a month prior. She tucked it into a pocket with a promise to share any news, where the letter was promptly forgotten until much later that evening.

Late that night, Jael returned to her modest home with two sleepy children in tow, while Esli stayed at the feast. He’d offered to come with her, but she insisted he remain, for she could easily put the children to bed on her own, and he should stay as one of the ranking officials from the journey. Their belongings were still in crates and traveling packs, but she’d had the foresight to make the beds when they’d dropped off the baggage, and now she was glad she’d done so.

Once Maura was asleep and Jael settled in a chair to feed Mary before putting her to bed as well, she remembered the letter in her pocket and pulled it out to read as the infant nursed.

 _27 May 1421 S.R./3021_

 _My dearest Lady Jael,_

 _I was most delighted to receive your letter and its news of your happiness and wellbeing, and the others were pleased as well. They send their greetings along to you and your family. Our journey home was leisurely and rather pleasant but for the partings we had to make along the way. Cousin Bilbo is still healthy, though sleepy and oft-confused in his old age._

 _We arrived in the Shire to find things not quite as expected, for evil has a long reach indeed. But things have been put to rights, in no small part thanks to Sam, Merry, and Pippin, so I will not dwell on the subject. I think you'll be pleased to know that Sam has wed a lovely lass named Rosie, and they recently became the parents of a daughter, Elanor. Merry and Pippin, much to their delight, are often in the center of attention as they gallivant about in their armor, though neither seems to be ready to settle down just yet. As for me, I have been busy putting our story to paper, that the Shire may know a bit of what has occurred outside our small land._

 _I am more pleased than words can express that you are doing so well and your family is thriving. I hope the voyage West was a profitable one, both in what you went to do and in finding your home once more. I shall be making a Westward voyage myself come fall, to finally gaze upon the Sea. But I will not only gaze upon it; I shall be sailing over it, as well. This is difficult to set down in words, but I thought you should know. I thought you might understand, if only a little. I did not find the solace I'd hoped for in what was once my home, for I am much changed, so I am taking the opportunity offered me and sailing across the Sea with the Elves to seek healing there._

 _So I am afraid this letter truly is good-bye. I do not doubt that Sam would be happy to continue corresponding with you, so address any future letters to Master Samwise Gamgee, Bag End, Hobbiton, The Shire. I shall continue thinking of you often, and I hope your family remains prosperous for many years to come._

 _Namárië,_

 _Frodo_

Jael smiled sadly. "Namarie, Frodo," she whispered as a stray tear snaked down her cheek. The babe in her arms squirmed, and she thought fondly of the little boy sleeping in the other room. "You will be remembered."


End file.
